Bloodwar
by chaosshotgun
Summary: [Sequel to Bloodforge] The curtains of the last battle are drawn, as the elven forces of the north and the forces of three races to the south fight their way to Uru'baen. The Riders are split in two groups to fight with their allies, while the mystery of the Vault of Souls hang over them all. Will they harness its power to prevail against their foes? A retelling of Inheritance.
1. The Curtains Rise

**Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle does not belong to me.**

* * *

 **Bloodwar**

 _The only things she could remember were random flashes and sensations – the rustle of silk against skin,the feel of warm skin touching someone's lips, his breath against her neck, his soft murmur as he listened to her pounding heart. She recalled not a face – only dark brown hair, black in the shadowed night… and eyes the color of warm honey._

 _She remembered him whispering her name, as if it was his lifeline. And it was always then that she woke up, tears to her eyes, struggling to recall who he was and if he still lives._

 _The thoughts stayed with her despite the fact that they were hard at work organizing and rebuilding Feinster after the siege. She knew he was important to the mystery at hand – a short passage that a human scholar discovered about the Vault of Souls in Doru Araeba , which she has never even heard of until that day. Or so, she thought._

 **Chapter 1: The Curtains Rise**

It was a warm, bright morning, and Aesyr rolled off her bed stiff and exhausted. She was grateful for the room that was assigned to her in the Castle of Feinster, but she barely even spent any time in it. Helping the people of Feinster rebuild after the siege, and distributing supplies from the steadily arriving Surdan ships was tiring, especially when they worked late into the night. And there were the lessons they were getting from the teachers.

According to Master Ash, their education was more important than ever.

She stretched and began her morning ablutions, sensing Sardonis in the far reaches of her mind. He was probably out hunting. She wears a plain tunic though she was well aware that her features would be hard to conceal. Shuffling out of her room, she made her way to the small dining hall where everyone now residing in the keep ate their breakfast, and sometimes their dinner.

Ash was already eating, a simple plate of flat bread in front of her and a cup of steaming tea to her left. "Ah, good morning, Aesyr," she said placidly. Her eyes were red-rimmed either from lack of sleep, crying, or both.

Aesyr shyly took a seat beside her teacher as a servant arrived bringing bread and tea, along with a small serving of wild mushrooms. The young Rider nodded in thanks before turning to her master. "Ebrithil, is something wrong?" she asked.

The elder Rider simply smiled and sipped her tea. Her eyes seemed distant and unfocused since the conclusion of the battle and Oromis' death. She kept most of her attention on the plate that she barely touched, fingers drumming the table. "Despite the knowledge that we have about our life in Doru Araeba, there are certain memories that feel… incomplete."

"What do you mean?" Aesyr began to eat slowly, eyes on her teacher. She heard many tales of Doru Araeba and the glorious age of the Riders from them, and this revelation seemed odd.

Silence reigned for a few minutes, broken only by the subtle sounds of the younger Rider's chewing. Eventually, Ash broke it with a sad smile. "I do not recall, but there are some parts of life before the Fall that I cannot remember, and it seems like the other survivors are oathbound not to speak of it. I know not who or what it is about, or why it happened." She rubbed her arms with a soft shudder. "It involves a man. A man like me," she finally whispered. "He had half-elven features."

"But you are the only half-elf in Ellesmera, correct?" As Aesyr spoke, though, her mind began to wonder to that day in Rhunon's forge, when they first heard about Brightsteel. There was someone like Ash, and he carried a Rider's sword.

Ash nodded. "As much as I am aware of, as my brother still resides in Nadindel."

Aesyr vaguely wondered whether she should reveal the presence of Tryndemiel. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Eragon arrived with Murtagh, talking animatedly. It seemed like they did not show any traces of fatigue at all. They greeted Ash and nodded to Aesyyr in simultaneous movements that they must have been accustomed to as twins.

"Melikir announced that we will be moving on tomorrow," announced Murtagh. "We will be moving north to Belatona."

"Belatona?" Aesyr inclined her head. "I suppose that would then clear the way to Dras Leona, then?"

"Yes." Murtagh suddenly looked worried. "We have gained the help of some soldiers from Feinster itself that have been confirmed to hold no oaths from Galbatorix. A great number of their forces volunteered, though I know not why."

Eragon smiled tightly. "Not all of the people serving the Empire truly are loyal to the tyrant who is enslaving them."

* * *

The sound of the rushing waves calmed Vanir. He supposed that Eragon was right. There was something about the rythmic dance of the sea, and he understood his people's fascination with the sea and the great beyond that it led to for the first time.

 _Such deep thoughts so early in the day,_ mused Diamanda, perching beside him precariously on the great wall facing the docks. _So what is this news I am hearing everywhere? Are we truly leaving for Belatona tomorrow? Why did you not tell me?_

 _Because I do not know what to feel about the upcoming battle._ Vanir straightened up, tearing his eyes away from the sea to face his dragon. _I want this war to be over with. I want to see Galbatorix and his Forsworn slain – but I do not want to cause more unwanted death and misery. There are many innocent people thrust into this chaos._

 _And more will be, if you do not participate and do your part,_ Diamanda told him. _We have talked of this many times._

Vanir nodded. _There is no use in fighting what seems to be our destiny,_ he finally consented. He stood up, breathing in as much of the sea breeze as he could. Maybe he will see it again after the war.

He clambered up Diamanda's foreleg and took his place on her saddle, smiling in spite of himself. They took to the skies, circling Feinster slowly before Diamanda turned to the sea. _Let us ride the waves,_ she began. _Maybe this moment will free your mind._

Vanir nodded, relishing the salty breeze that the sea brought. The dragon dove into the water, and Vanir kept his eyes closed. He felt her tugging, and before he knew it, he was pulled into her body, seeing the world through her eyes. They flexed their powerful wings together, using it to propel themselves through the water – whose vibrant blue-green hue seemed to be muted, though the white of the foam was amazingly vivid.

They leapt right out of the water, and they admired the way sea water made their opalescent scales glow in the bright early morning sun. They were beautiful, deadly, and most important of all, they truly were one.

* * *

Arya looked up from the piece of armor that she was polishing as footsteps resounded from outside her room. Firnen, as much as she was aware of, was too heavy to be the source – and besides, he was busy training with Brand. She raised an eyebrow when Faolin finally strode into the room, dressed in dark clothing.

"Arya," he all but whispered, sitting down beside her. He seemed sad, his eyes distant. "I am so afraid of the war on the horizon."

She stared at him, confused. Her brother was always confident. "What is wrong?" she asked, putting a hand on her brother's shoulder.

Faolin stared at her, sudden fear and sadness lighting up in his forest-green eyes. "You remember how Niduen… sees… at times, do you not?" He looked away, staring instead at the armor pieces on the floor. "It seems like she has seen a few things about the war, but refuses to disclose the information to me. I am afraid that someone will get hurt before everything is over."

At those words, Arya felt indescribable rage overcome her fear. She could taste it in her very tongue, and in her mind, she could hear Firnen roaring in defiance. She felt the urge to do the same – to let out her desire to defy fate if it does exist. "We write our own destiny," she growled at Faolin. "No matter what they say must happen, what they say we must do, we forge our own paths. We won't do anything because it was preordained. We will be doing it because we want to."

"So we shall," murmured Faolin, smiling tiredly. "Still, forgive me for worrying that a dire fate may befall us in this war."

Arya smiled and touched Faolin's hand. "Once the war is over, we shall visit Father's grave, you and I."

Faolin still seemed so distant. He rubbed his wrist idly. "Arya, I wish it will be so. I wish to have Niduen as my mate once the war is over."

"Then you shall." Arya willed herself to sound like she truly believed her words. She hoped that it would be the way they all wanted – everyone alive and safe, and finally doing what they want to without fearing Galbatorix and his twisted Riders.

Faolin nodded and rose to his feet, dusting his cloak in the process. "Then we shall," he agreed with a smile. "I will be seeing you later, sister. May the stars watch over you."

* * *

Nasuada stood at the top of the wall, watching the Varden begin to move their supplies out of the city. The gates were thrown open, and people freely filed in and out of the city. Trade was fluorishing again as Orrin appointed one of his lords to temporarily preside over the city.

She wondered if Feinster would survive the coming war. It is highly possible that the Empire may choose to attack it while the Varden pushes forward. She wrapped her arms around herself, lost in her thoughts. She barely felt the strengthening of Solaris' thoughts in her mind as the mighty golden dragon made her way to her Rider.

 _I smell blood and tears in our future,_ she mused, taking her Rider by surprise.

Nasuada bit her lip. _I pray that we shall prevail._

 _We shall, and I would rather that you do not think otherwise._

With a sigh, Nasauda put a hand on Solaris' side, feeling the ridges of the gaps between the vivid scales. _Solaris, we ride to battle again soon. Do you think we shall have time to visit Doru Araeba and find the Vault of Souls? I have a feeling that it will be important in our final battle against Galbatorix and the Forsworn._

 _I have a feeling that it will be important, and that we shall find it. Do not discount the werecat's prophecy, for it shall come to pass._ Solaris gazed at the crowd of warriors who were assigned to look over the supplies – warriors that included men from Carvahall and some Urgals.

 _It is interesting, the way this war has brought all of our races together,_ Nasuada noted as she followed her dragon's eyes. _I cannot imagine that just two years ago, I was simply one of the children of the Varden – the leader's daughter, aye, but still a child._

 _And I was a hatchling a little less than two years ago,_ added Solaris. _It truly is wondrous, how two years can change someone._

 _What I fear is how much the war would change us, should we survive to see it end,_ Nasuada mused darkly.

* * *

Matching Blodhgarm blow by blow would have been impossible a few months before, but now, Roran was proud to say that his skills have improved drastically, tremendously helped by the metamorphosis brought about by the Agaeti Blodhren. So much has happened since then – some of the memories, such as the first fight with the Forsworn, were still painful, but many were truly beautiful.

He felt a sudden hot pain in his arm and it jolted him out of his thoughts. He reeled backward, realizing that the furry elf's dulled blade struck him in his moment of distraction. His boots scraped the sandy ground as he tried to regain his balance.

For a moment, no one moved. The only sound that could be heard for a while would be the rushing waves crashing against the beach, splashes of water hitting the tips of the combatants shoes. Then, Blodgharm lowered his blade with a bow. "It was a good fight," the elf admitted. "You have improved most impressively, but it seems like your mind still wanders. That would not serve you well in a true battle, Roran-finiarel… ah, Roran-elda now, is it, Elder?"

"Roran would still be fine," the Rider stammered, cheeks flushing as he touched the Elder's pendant hanging from a chain around his neck. "I am but a child compared to you, wise elf."

"But you stand above all of us as an Elder," Blodhgarm countered, looking genuinely confused.

"Ah, never mind." Roran hefted his sword, testing its weight before sheathing it in its scabbard. "So we are done for today, then?"

The elf nodded solemnly. "Serylda Svit-kona requested for our presence by the gates."

Roran shifted uncomfortably, aware that they were about to ride into war once more. "Do you think this war shall ever conclude?"

"But of course. We can feel it in the horizon, you and I. You are just not aware of it yet." Blodhgarm's fur seemed to dance with the light breeze – something it had not done until then. "What will come will come, argetlam. We must simply be ready to face it."

Roran watched the elf walk away, a sudden feeling of unease blooming deep within him.

* * *

Murtagh stepped through the gates, leading wagons of supplies – clothes and sewing materials – out of Feinster. Most of these supplies were originally brought in by the Varden during the journey to Feinster, but many city merchants were more than happy to offer their wares at a certain price. Murtagh supposed it cannot be avoided.

Warriors surrounded the small caravan and Thorn soared above them to make sure that no one would sneak in and sabotage the wagons. Murtagh himself kept his mind open and aware, though lately the presence of trees and various wildlife started interfering. It seemed like he was more attuned to them than he was to the minds of people aside from his fellow Riders and their dragons. He discussed it various times with Thorn, but not even the mighty dragon and his ancestral memories could provide any theory. Not even Ash and Serylda – technically the most senior Riders in existence, now that Oromis was gone – could explain it.

A pang of sadness overwhelmed Murtagh as he recalled the tale that Ash told them – of how Morzan murdered his former master, Oromis. Never again would they spend time under Oromis' watchful eye, learning about various academical knowledge necessary for all Riders. He hoped that Glaedr would recover from his loss in time, but then again, no one ever would. Not fully.

 _I miss Oromis too. And the lack of Glaedr's presence does not feel right either,_ Thorn mused.

 _I know._ Murtagh rubbed his chest idly as his throat clenched.

 _They were most wise when they lived. They have made mistakes, but they have always sought to correct them._ The eldunari of Livia, Thorn's mother, stirred from the dragon's saddle, as if awakened by the pair's sadness. _He lived well, and died in battle, as he would have wished._

 _Not to be killed by someone without honor like Morzan,_ Murtagh all but growled. He could still remember the mad Rider who almost killed Hrothgar.

Thorn shared his agreement. _Most definitely not. Morzan shall burn for his crimes, and his dragon shall face the wrath of the true children of fire and wind._

 _A great number of us would scream for his blood as much as Galbatorix's._ A wry smile crept up Murtagh's face. _If he does not die in battle at the hands of people who hate him at the conclusion of this war, I will convince all elves in Ellesmera to try your favorite dwarven mead. After Melikir calls for his execution, of course._

 _Is that a wager, then?_

 _Yes._

 _Then if he ends up dead in battle, I will be the one who shall convince the elves._ Thorn seemed determined and amused. _Mother, I hope you were listening._

 _But of course,_ assured Livia. _Such agreements require a witness, my son._

* * *

Katrina stood at the top of the tallest tower in Feinster's castle, watching the ongoing exodus of the Varden. It was two hours before dawn, and she barely slept. Beside her stood Luneria, wings poised and ready to take flight once her Rider finally takes her place.

She felt like the ongoing war was a storm, and she had only two options – to be swept up in it, uncontrolled, or muster her strength and fight her way through it.

 _I trust your strength as much as you trust mine,_ Luneria told her. _You defied your father for months to keep me, without ever knowing the true depth and value of our bond. You struggled to gain your confidence and grow into your gifts. It is the time to test yourself, and I am sure that you shall succeed._

 _I must succeed._ Katrina's hand rested on the moonstone-adorned pommel of Manen, fingers tingling. _We must survive._

 _And so we shall._ The dragon's iron-hard determination and optimism could not be swayed. _I thirst for the blood of my enemies, and I know you do, too._

Closing her eyes, Katrina could picture the broken form of Lady Velienne of Surda, crimson blood blossoming from her pale white throat.

 _Not as much as before,_ she admitted. _But we do what we must._

Luneria's approval was warm and overwhelming. _You truly are growing up, little one._

Carefully, Katrina made her way to the saddle, strapping herself carefully as the last of the Varden began to clear the streets. _We have waited too long. Let us take to the skies once more as dragon and Rider._

 _Very well._ With glee, Luneria leapt off the tower, flapping her mighty wings to push her heavy body upward.

Katrina closed her eyes and let herself be lost within her dragon's consciousness.

They opened their eyes, mighty wings effortlessly steering them eastward, three mighty beats bringing them to the gates. Their other kin were standing at the intact part of the wall, true partners-of-mind-and-heart, the last of their kind.

* * *

Dawn.

If the initial marching did not make him feel that the true final days of the war were coming, the vivid rays of the rising sun did. It was the color of blood, as if summoning the entire world to watch with bated breath as the two most powerful forces in the land were poised to truly collide. The Burning Plains were merely a test, Feinster almost laughable in its lack of resistance aside from the Shade.

The test is over, and now they are ready to truly ride into battle. He was sure that the Forsworn will be waiting for them once they reach Belatona, and he feared for the elves as he was sure that Morzan was in the north.

He had already confered with the other Riders regarding this matter, and it has been decided that three shall head to Gil'ead to boost the elves' forces, while a small number of elves are similarly on their way to Bellatona to aid in the siege as Melikir had graciously informed him.

He knew not what the coming days would bring, if they would still meet again once their forces converge upon Uru'baen, but they had to hope and do their best to survive.

In his mind's eye, he could see two children – a boy with Arya's ethereal features, and a girl more closer to a particular blue-eyed son of Palancar Valley. He could feel the future sitting tantalizingly close but out of reach and he was bent on pulling it ever closer.

He was determined to live and tell the tale to his descendants.

A tale of wonder, war, love, pain, and hope all put together like a snarl of iridiscent threads interwoven in an intricately wondrous way.

* * *

 **I'm baaaaaaack! Okay, I've been back for a month, but still... it's Bloodwar! Bloodwar!**

 **Just a heads up guys, I will not be updating this as frequently as Ashes to Ashes as BW might overtake it and spoil more major stuff aside from the mini-prologue here. Oh and I am shamelessly plugging that other fic as some latter portions there will come into play here. Promise. It's pretty important especially as I've changed some stuff about the Vault of Souls.**

 **Anyway, I'm sure I've never written a chapter containing all Riders' POV's before. I wanted to put in Melikir, Garrow, and Astrid (remember him?!) but it feels like having the Riders set the stage for the grand finale feels more fitting.**

 **Thank you so much for sticking with me until this point. :3 You're all the best!**


	2. Stoking the Fire

**Disclaimer: Nothing here belongs to me. At all.**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Stoking the Fire**

It was with great heaviness in his heart that Murtagh led the group of Riders who shall be assisting the elves at Gil'ead, whose siege has not yet broken. It seems like the militaristic city is more prepared than Feinster, especially since the presence of at least four of the Forsworn has apparently been confirmed.

He promised not to let Eragon down, especially since the younger twin personally appointed him as the leader of the team which comprised of Murtagh, Aesyr, and Arya, and their dragons. Four of their elven guards also decided to join them – Randarion, Mindeth, Aviana, and Elmyra who sparred with them during the days they honed their gifts in the elven forest.

The journey was quiet, especially with everyone worrying both for the people they left behind and the situation that they were about to throw themselves into.

Thorn seemed to be more optimistic, though. _There are four of us, and the entire elven army behind us. We shall prevail. I can feel it._

 _And if we do not?_ Murtagh cannot leave anything to chance and luck.

 _That thought is something you must not entertain,_ Thorn mused quietly.

The cold wind blew at their faces as they steadily headed for the northeast, and Gil'ead. A sudden ache bloomed within Murtagh when he realized that they would most likely arrive in time to witness Oromis' funeral, and laying Glaedr's physical body into its final resting place.

 _We must pay our final respects,_ he decided.

Sorrow welled up within Thorn's very being too, magnifying the emotions already running rampant within Murtagh despite his very efforts to quell them. _We should have been there. If at least half of us marched with the elves, then Oromis and Glaedr could have fought back. I am sure of it._

 _But everyone seemed to think that the Varden needed us more. We cannot blame anyone for this. Nobody expected what happened, as the Empire was anticipated to focus on Feinster as most of us are blatantly in the south._ Despite his attempts to rationalize, Thorn seemed to share Murtagh's feelings of guilt. _We must live on and fight in their names, to honor their memory._

They reached Gil'ead three days after leaving Feinster, one day after parting from their fellow Riders.

The first thing they saw was the group of elves surrounding the northern entrance to the city, shields collectively raised against a massive bloodred dragon. Morzan's laughter wafted through the air, making Murtagh's stomach clench.

 _What do we do?_ Aesyr's nervous thoughts seeped through Murtagh's own. _We cannot simply announce our presence._

 _I think we should._ Murtagh frowned. _Taking him by surprise is the only way I believe we can overpower him._

 _That would be a great risk,_ Thorn pointed out.

 _Do we have any other choice?_

 _I suppose not. Very well._

"Rider, I hope you have a very good plan," Elmyra said, leaning forward slightly from her perch behind him.

Murtagh smiled. "I do. Close your mind and secure yourself with those straps."

Keeping their minds well-defended, the three dragons soared right behind Morzan, ramming themselves against his dragon, Alfara, who whipped around to face them a little too late. Morzan yelled something lost to the wild as the dragons crashed, spinning uncontrollably in the air. Ruby light streaked from the Forsworn leader's hands, which missed and merely exploded above them, sending blood-hued sparks raining down on them.

Minutes of pure chaos reigned as the dragons struggled against each other. Alfara was older, larger, and stronger, but even she had to bow down to numbers and the sheer energy of youth. Murtagh could hear Morzan cursing but mostly ignored it, focusing on the chance to strike.

The first onslaught came without a sign.

Morzan's mind came with thunderous force, strong enough to daze Murtagh even behind the iron-clad barrier of his fiery mind.

 _Courage. A little more._ Thorn's voice in his thoughts was all but a tickling whisper, but it was enough to renew the Rider's determination.

The four dragons disengaged from battle. It was then that Murtagh realized that he was feeling a piercing pain on his shoulder – around the same area where Thorn was suffering from a deep cut. Alfara herself had a bloodied nose, and a gash from beneath her eye running down to a quarter of her massive, glittering neck.

She opened her mouth, bloodred flames speeding toward her foes.

Thorn and Firnen shot away in time, but Sardonis being smaller was caught. The sheer force and size of the flames rammed against him, sending him hurtling away and down to the bloody ground beneath them. Despite the fact that dragons are immune to the flames of their kin, the strength of the fiery jet surely injured him badly.

He took his own Rider, Aesyr, and their elven guard Mindeth down with him.

Murtagh heard someone screaming in terror and anguish, and he himself felt terror bloom in him, realizing that he was in no position to chase after his sister and her dragon. Istalri was halfway out of its sheath when he realized what he was doing.

"Shur'tugal, no," Elmyra groaned.

Murtagh ignored her, his fear turning into a raging fire of wrath. He shall rain his indignation upon those who dared harm what little family he had left. His sword was free of its scabbard and he raised it above him as Alfara turned to him, mouth opening wide.

He felt Thorn's energy flow through his body and through the dragon, energy from Livia's Eldunari.

With a roar that his dragon echoed, they charged forward to meet their foe's flames.

* * *

Pain.

All Aesyr was aware of for a while was blinding hot pain all over her body, magnified tenfold by the same sensations coursing through Sardonis' body. The dragon was half-conscious, aware of nothing but the fiery agony coursing through his night-dark body. Aesyr gritted herself, fighting hard not to cry out from the pain.

Darkness and pain was all she knew for what felt like an agonizingly long time. Pain from crashing into the ground, pain from Alfara's flames. Her pain was Sardonis' pain, and Sardonis' pain was her pain. They were one.

It felt like eternity when she realized that the pain had subsided somewhat into a dull throbbing. She sensed Sardonis calming down slowly into a state of half-awareness, and her eyes slowly opened.

Honey-hued eyes peered at her with so much concern. Aware that they were unfamiliar, Aesyr nearly leapt away – if she wasn't so sore. Instead, she settled for a nice loud scream that was punctuated with an explosion above them.

The elf who peered at her scooted back warily, and upon closer inspection, he was actually the half-elf Tryndemiel whom they briefly met in Ellesmera weeks ago. "Argetlam," he breathed out, barely masking his nervousness. "If everyone screamed as loudly as you, we could have defeated our foes easily."

"Y-you surprised me," Aesyr groaned, sitting up.

She realized that she was sitting beside Sardonis' prone form, Mindeth lying unconscious to her left. Partially-healed burns marred the beautiful elf's skin, and upon inspecting her own arms, Aesyr found out that she sported similar injuries.

"I am not the best healer," Tryndemiel admitted. "And I barely have energy to fully heal a dragon. But the elves could spare only me."

"I need to help them," murmured Aesyr, looking up at the fiery battle above them and the clash of weapons as the elves fought on foot against the army stationed in Gil'ead a little to the east.

Tryndemiel shook his head. "None of you are in any condition to fight." He stood up, hand closing around his turquoise Rider sword. "Rest. I will keep watch, young Rider."

* * *

Murtagh's fiery sword parted dragonfire, it seemed, as the two magical flames seemed to deflect each other. The feat sapped his strength, but he finally knew that he had a new skill that could become useful someday. He could hear Morzan shouting angrily, and a bolt of magic shot toward him, forcing Thorn to veer upward and away from Alfara's massive form. He cannot deflect dragonfire again without incapacitating himself and tiring Thorn too much.

"Argetlam, you cannot fight him that way," Elmyra admonished him.

 _Arya, can your group try distracting Morzan?_ Murtagh inquired.

 _Randarion and Aviana are ready,_ Arya told him smugly. _It seems like they were simply waiting for us to ask._

 _Anytime will be good._ Murtagh put out Istalri's flames, bracing himself for the distraction.

Firnen opened his mouth, sending jets of fire at Alfara who turned to face him. Brilliant sparks of magic flew from Arya and her companions' hands, exploding a small distance away from Morzan due to his wards. While Forsworn and dragon were busy facing their new foes, Murtagh increased the protection in his mind. It was flimsy compared to the things Eragon can now do, but it had to suffice.

He felt an onslaught of force suddenly land a blow against his barriers. It seemed like Morzan did not completely forget about him.

Waiting until the elves tried to pierce through their foe's wards again, he hefted his blade and let Thorn speed toward Morzan just as a spark of yellow fire from Aviana made it past the ward. Just as Morzan raised his hands to deflect Arya's green fire, Thorn closed most of the distance and Murtagh leapt off his saddle, ignoring Elmyra's cry of alarm. He was about to sink his sword into Morzan's back when a sudden crushing force whipped across his back.

His mind did not register the pain immediately as he blindly drove his sword down the streak of red swiftly moving away from him. He heard Thorn's roar of rage, and he found it suddenly difficult to breathe. A dark pressure pressed against his back, restricting his movements as he tried to pull out his sword.

There was a flash of brighter red and green as the two younger dragons converged upon Alfara. Murtagh wrested his blade off the mad dragon's tail, leaving a deep, jagged wound. He felt strong arms pull him away just as a blast of sizzling red magic shot toward him. He slump forward and Thorn began to attack, Elmyra barely keeping an arm around Murtagh's waist as her free hands tied him back to the saddle.

Thorn roared and clamped his teeth upon the larger's dragon freely bleeding tail, which flicked angrily, taking Thorn and his riders with it. Murtagh barely clung on to the saddle straps, unashamedly screaming in terror and pain. Thorn clung on, wringing the thrashing tail until there was a wet tearing sound and they careened away, everything a flash of different sensations.

There was a loud angry roar coming from Alfara's direction.

Firnen was hovering a few feet away, leftforeleg bleeding heavily, a massive gash on his left wing. _Good work,_ he announced in his playful voice.

A small red mass was falling from Thorn's maw, and it took a while for Murtagh to realize that his dragon managed to bite off a portion of Alfara's tail. Morzan cussed and directed a bolt of red lightning toward them. It missed – mostly because Alfara began to loose the balance that an undamaged tail would offer her.

With one last jet of flame and a shockwave of magic that blew the dragons back, the first and most terrible of the Forsworn fled with his dragon.

* * *

Astrid, unacknowledged eldest son of Lord Herion of Lithgow, sat crosslegged, an empty bowl of broth by his feet. The younger men of the camp sat around the fire with him, laughing and telling different tales of their exploits before the war. As a great number of them came from Carvahall, he began to learn more about the village itself.

Upon hearing news that they were now orphaned, the villagers seemed to have taken him and his friends Bjorne and Hilde under their collective wing, keeping an eye on their welfare and making sure that they were fed and clothed in between their different jobs. He appreciated their concern, but it also made him sad.

His mother would have fussed over him the same way if the Empire did not ambush their caravan and kill all the adults.

Beside him, one of the Carvahall blacksmith's son – Albreich, he thought his name was – let out a hearty guffaw and nearly spilled his broth with a wild gesture. "Aye, you wouldn't believe it, but I used to fight with our three Riders over asking the hand of the fourth for marriage."

"Murtagh and Eragon, too? They had eyes for Katrina?" one of the younger Surdan warriors asked, sounding dubious.

"Oh, it was merely a thing of boyhood, believe me," Albreich told him. "We all grew up together as friends, and it was quite a surprise when they all ran off. Baldor here even wondered why they never pulled us into an adventure with them! Not that I am complaining, but it must have been interesting to travel with dragons and Riders."

"It is." Brom strode into their midst, his icy sword scabbard gleaming even in the dim firelight. He looked as gruff as ever, though a spark of amusement seemed to dance in his eyes. "Now, it would truly be helpful for us to know our new allies more, but you should rest as much as you can. We shall be arriving in Bellatona tomorrow." He turned to Astrid with a smile. "Ah, Lord Melikir seeks your presence. It would be wise to hurry up and meet him."

Astrid nodded and rose to his feet. He left his bowl in the table where others of its kind awaited to be cleaned by the women of the camp, then shuffled tiredly to the pavilion. He let out an audible yawn as he sauntered in, hoping to irritate Melikir as he always did.

Melikir looked up tiredly from a pile of notes that Astrid personally stole from his father's tent. "Ah, good. I thought you would take longer."

Astrid grinned and took a seat before the young leader of the Varden even asked him to. It was a joke between them, his attempts to irritate him and his attempts to stay dignified.

"I never would dream of defying Brom," he said honestly. "I heard from one of the Riders themselves that he could be quite terrifying when defied."

Melikir chuckled softly. "Ah, yes. Most frustrating when he is unhappy. But he did me a favor and warded this pavilion against eavesdroppers, so I must not complain." He shook his head, looking at least ten years older than he actually was. "Forgive me, but it seems like your father is succumbing to mad delusions more and more every day."

"He was never much of a father. No need to apologize." Astrid shook his head, remembering the nightmares he had of his father. "I believe he is mad, too. I haven't read anything from his documents. Were you able to decipher anything?"

"Mostly things about Lithgow's day-to-day life, and some reports from his spies spying on our own people in his city." Melikir paused. "He should not be doing that, as you should be aware. He still has his eyes on Uru'baen, and it seems like he is starting to plot against Rider Roran, you, and the child Elva."

Astrid let out a nervous giggle. He hated the fact that he could actually have a claim on the throne. He had no interest in it at all, and would only take the opportunity if they had no choice on the matter. "He could have the throne for all I care," he groaned. "Well, I suppose Rider Roran can take it too, since no one wants another mad king. Or you could raise that child Elva to be a queen. I don't mind at all. Unless you want to put Claus on the throne instead? My younger brother might not appreciate that either. He loves Lithgow too much."

"I know. So many things to consider…" Melikir shuffled his documents. "I have learned about his plots in Lithgow and his attempts to spy in this camp, though, which would also be important. I will be asking you to keep an eye out for some of these spies."

Astrid nodded. It seemed like his best purpose for now would be for him to act as a tool against his father.

* * *

 **Just a random chapter to prepare for the next one! I wanted to update this and do 2 more for AtA before next saturday, which accounts for this rushed chapter. And yes, the Thorn vs Alfara fight was a small shoutout to a scene in the books too... xD**

 **Unfortunately, Sevanna and Eoran of AtA won't be appearing here as much as I love them.**

 **I'm sorry about causing a bit of confusion about the last POV in chapter 1, that was actually Eragon! XD**

 **Just so you know, Morzan only has two Eldunarya with him which is why he was so easily overpowered. And don't worry, Aesyr, Sardonis, and Mindeth will be okay!**

 **Whose POV's would you like to see next chapter?!**

 **Read and review, as always!**

 **Ashes to Ashes will be updated sometime this weekend.**


	3. Unknown Clues

**Disclaimer: If I owned anything I write fics for, I would've married Alistair Theirin already.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Starlight**

With Morzan retreating for an indefinite time, the elves and the three Riders on their side took Gil'ead easily within the next three days. Though still sore and exhausted, Aesyr immediately returned to the battle after Tryndemiel managed to look for an elf to heal her.

Fortified and more prepared for a dragon-assisted siege, Gil'ead and its defenders fought well – much, much better than those of Feinster, who were so easily swept under the dragons' combined forces. Gil'ead had better defenses, better weapons to face the Riders. The elves' force – helmed by Queen Islanzadi, Lord Dathedr, and a red-haired elf lord that Randarion mentioned was his father – marched into the defeated city at the sunset of the third day since Morzan's escape.

The Riders were at the very back of the group, surrounded by the four guards who accompanied them when they departed from the Varden's camp, and Tryndemiel who protected Aesyr, Sardonis, and Mindeth while they waited for a healer to arrive.

The people of Gil'ead lined the streets, some with hostile glints in their eyes and a noticeable majority with relieved looks. Some of them seemed to quail under her gaze – a Rider's gaze – as they probably feared that she was as mad as the Forsworn.

 _The Forsworn have left such a lasting taint among our kind,_ Sardonis noted sadly. _They must pay._

 _Yes._ Aesyr's thoughts turned to Himeria though, who was a member of the Varden before she fled after the attack on Farthen Dur. _I still pray for some of them – those that I believe could be redeemed._

 _Do you think there is still hope for her, then?_ Sardonis seemed unable to understand why she still believed in Himeria's better nature. _Her own family has given up on her._

 _Nasuada hasn't. I knew them both since we all grew up in the Varden. Not the way I know Nasuada now, but I saw them all the time and they treated me well._

 _Hope is a very fragile and ever-changing thing. I may be but a hatchling to our masters, but I have seen so much of it in the time I have been bonded with you._ A tinge of sadness crept up Sardonis' thoughts. _I've seen men die for this hope._

 _Sometimes they die so that others may see the goal they have fought so long and hard for,_ Aesyr told him.

By nightfall, the elves managed to secure Gil'ead properly as a base of operations. The Riders were provided with their own rooms in the Guard Tower – rooms which most likely belonged to the Forsworn and their dragons before the the elves scoured them clean of any dark and twisted object that might do the Riders harm.

She sat on the small cot, unadorned except for a soft pillow and black sheets. A folded blanket rested on the hastily-placed bedside table, and her pack rested beside a now-empty wardrobe. A massive balcony-like extension on the eastern side of the room lent its space to a pile of cushions where Sardonis lay, storm-hued eyes alert and watchful.

She strode toward him and threw open the massive wooden doors to watch Gil'ead twinkling below them. Lights have been set up in the places unmarred by the siege. Smoke and flames still lit up the north, where the elves first struck and the brunt of the battle took place in. If she walked in the ruined husk of that part of the city, she was sure to feel the misery and pain of those who struggled to live despite the hazy pain brought forth by their injuries.

She did not want to weep for the lives lost and the futures burned to the ground.

There were always victors in war. And many sacrifices resulting in deaths had to be made to achieve it and bring forth a better future for Alagaesia.

Under the light of a thousand stars, she swore that the people who fell in the war to save Alagaesia will be honored beyond doubt once they finally succeeded in ushering true peace.

* * *

Fiery lights. She remembered fiery lights consuming Doru Araeba as she screamed and heaved. Ash remembered bearing a child, but what happened to it, or how it may have died, she recalled not. It was as far away to her as the memories of the person who was its father.

The closer their forces crept to Belatona, the more she was desperate to search for the missing gaps in her memories – to fully recall everything about her life before the Riders. She wanted to properly mourn the friends, the lover, and the child she lost. She wanted to honor their memory the way she honored Oromis'. Glaedr was of no help, still consumed by the fiery pain of loss, and Brand does not remember what she forgot either.

She wanted to ask Jotnar, but he and the rest of the Painted Ones never left Nadindel since after the Fall. The one time they did talk, shortly before they went into hiding, he was not forthcoming with his answers either, claiming that there was a reason that she forgot. Their last meeting ended in so much rage and tears, not helped by the fact that everyone was so broken, so ruined by the Fall. She never even sent any letters to him anymore, despite him keeping in touch with Oromis and even Serylda.

They were two days away from the outskirts of Belatona when the elven reinforcements were sighted outside the camp.

She was dining with Serylda, who was busy going over some maps that they had of Doru Araeba before the fall. They were idly discussing how to search for the Vault of Souls, and what it could be. She could barely hold down her food as the desire to remember began to overwhelm her. She could sense Brand's worry. She stared at the slices of bread offered to her by the few servants remaining in the camp, and nearly pushed it away if not for the fact that she had to keep up her strength.

Loud footsteps preceeded Eragon's arrival. The young Rider was still so full of life, and of hope. Maybe that was what everyone needed. Hope. "Masters," he said in the common tongue brought to the land by his race. "We have news."

"News?" Ash tilted her head, hoping that Brand and the other dragons were done hunting so that they could easily assist in case of trouble. Sadly he always blocked her out to avoid disturbing her over his kills. "What tidings do you bring, Eragon-finiarel?"

"The elven contingent have been spotted a little to the northeast," Eragon said, excitement brimming from his bright blue eyes.

Ash smiled, summoning the cheerful persona that she brought forth in front of her pupils and the other elves. "Very well. It seems like you have not yet outgrown your need for us, then?"

"Never, Master," Eragon intoned, smiling.

A Rider, it was said, remained a pupil for their entire life. It was true.

The Varden was starting to swarm the northern border of the camp to catch a glimpse of more members of the elusive elves. Blodhgarm and his group were already there, circling the other Riders who were already waiting. Vanir bowed as they arrived. "Masters, we are glad that word has reached you."

"But of course," Serylda said with one of those rare bright smiles she once reserved for their family. Then again, the Riders were now their family – a family that lost its patriarch. "News always reaches us."

Ash peered at the horizon, where the approaching elves steadily approached them, someone painfully familiar at their head. Jotnar led the small elven contingent, as tall and proud as ever, the pale black markings on his forehead not yet visible from the distance. Ash was almost able to make out his determined bright green eyes, though.

"That is Oromis' eldest son," Serylda announced for the group. "Jotnar of the Painted Ones, and one of the best swordsmen in Ellesmera, bested only by one other."

As they came nearer, Ash could make out the rest of the contingent – the entire Order of the Painted Ones, different-colored markings on their faces. One stood out from the rest though, as his face was as clean as a newborn babe's. His hair was cut short, like a human's, and his face was that of a half-elf's. His hair was like pale gold, shining beneath the morning sun. There was something familiar about his upturned nose, the full lips, the canted eyes.

They were eyes the color of honey.

Ash was sure that he was not her lover. She would have felt her blood burn and sing if she faced him after more than a century of absence. She was sure that this young half-elf was someone essential to her missing past, though.

* * *

Vanir and Diamanda followed their comrades as they led the march to the command pavilion. He felt the air of expectation building up within the camp as the arrival of the elves bolstered the strength that their forces lacked, now that Murtagh and the others were sent to Gil'ead. They would not be so helpless against half the Forsworn. They had a fighting chance, no matter how slim.

There was tension between Ash and Jotnar, of that he was sure. He heard her mention her brother only twice – once when she asked for his favor to assist the Riders with their swordsmanship, back when he bitterly considered joining the Painted Ones, and another during their training, when she explained about the remnants of House Thrandurin.

His idle thoughts strayed to Aesyr, and he wondered how she was faring. They received a scrying message the night before to confirm that Morzan was indeed sighted and defeated in Gil'ead, though Aesyr, Sardonis, and Mindeth were injured during the fight. Despite denying it, Katrina insisted that his knees went weak and he had to sit down when he heard the news.

He did care for Aesyr, but it was like the way he cared for the rest of his Riders – his new family. It was natural to worry about the members of his family, that was all. He could sense Diamanda's growing amusement in his mind, and he lashed out with tendrils of annoyance.

The marching ended before the Pavilion, where Melikir, his new Council of Elders, members of the dwarven contingent, King Orrin and some of his Lords, and the Nighthawks, Lord Melikir's personal guard, were all waiting.

The Riders took their place behind Melikir, though the absence of three of their members was so much more pronounced at that very moment. The dragons circled the pavilion, ready to assist should any fight break out. The leaders of the newly-arrived contingent took the seats King Orrin offered them. The rest stood behind them, faces frustratingly inscrutable. Were elves truly like that?

Jotnar was so different from his sister, his face incorporating more elven features, from his small, straight nose, to his rosebud lips. His hair was as dark as Ash's was golden, too, and his eyes were a deeper shade of green. The half-elf seated beside him was not a Painted One, and he looked more the part of Ash's brother than Jotnar did, as they shared more similarities – though there was also something reminiscent of another half-elf that Vanir encountered in Rhunon's forge.

He was not one to pry, but he wanted to ask about him some other time.

Melikir spread his hands in greeting. "Welcome to our lowly camp, oh fair ones."

Jotnar bowed his head. "I am Jotnar, son of Oromis, of House Thranduin and a Painted One. We have come to lend our aid to a cause we have found worthy. This is my ward, Juvel, of unknown parentage. I believe there is much to discuss today, Melikir-elda."

Melikir smiled. "Oh, yes, there is much to discuss, including strategy. But I hear that two of your sisters are among the Riders who are now lending aid to our cause. Would you not rather talk to them first over some refreshments?"

A look of guilt flashed across Jotnar's face, and his eyes flickered to Juvel before turning back to Melikir. "I would rather not. I am sure we will have much time later, when we have settled."

Vanir glanced at Ash, whose face took on a stony look as she regarded her brother. He wondered if some tragedy caused them to fall apart.

* * *

 **In case you guys are confused, the dragons arrived during the half hour between Ash and Vanir's POVs.**

 **I'm having trouble figuring out my mobile browser so I can't reply to messages, but don't worry guys, I'm aware of the image bug. I might wait for official word from the dev team before I start taking down images or whatnot just to be safe.**

 **So, so, so sorry for being so late from the schedule, but I ended up in a small accident over the weekend and got a sprained knee. The healing process is pretty quick since it's not really THAT bad, but I had to rest for a bit and wasn't anywhere near my PC. I can walk now, thankfully.**

 **Don't you just love it when AtA characters randomly pop up in here, though? XD We'll be having a Serylda and Saphira POV next chapter, but it might take a bit longer since I don't want to throw in more AtA spoilers in rapid succession.**

 **Another apology for the short chapter, but I'll be out on a movie date tomorrow with my real-life Tryndemiel armed with my bandages and backpack, and I wanted to leave something for you guys while I'm away.**

 **We'll be seeing more badass Thorn moments when he duels Alfara again, though. Gyahh!**

 **Read and review as always, guys!**


	4. Tension and Challenges

**Disclaimer: Inheritance, the source material, does not belong to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Tension and Challenges**

Arya couldn't sleep. Despite having secured Gil'ead, she was sure that there was trouble lurking nearby, and that the elves still need them. Despite being a Rider, who must forsake affiliations to their own race and maintain neutrality, she still felt like they were her people. She found it odd – she never felt like she belonged among them until she became a Rider. She still resented their appearance of coldness, their vanity, though.

She left her room and a sleeping Firnen, climbing the spiral stairs that took her to the top of the tower that the Riders and the higher-ranking elves occupied. She wanted to clear her head and think, but unfortunately someone already beat her to it.

A tall elven lord sat against the battlements, idly strumming his lute. He turned as Arya approached, his senses alerting him to her presence. Blue-gray eyes peered at her behind a curtain of red hair. They exchanged the standard greetings, and Arya finally remembered who he is – Lord Fayille, head of House Svarthall.

"Fayille-elda, I did not expect you to be here," she admitted. "I knew you were no warrior."

"I am a bard," Fayille agreed. He set down his lute and peered at her. "I cannot bear to see my son, Randarion, fight while I stay with the noncombatants of our House. I fought in the Fall, though you may not be aware of it. Arya Drottningu, I think there are many things to see in this world that would be worthy of songs. It would be a shame not to hear of them because of a mad king and his followers."

Arya nodded. She heard many tales from Faolin of this particular lord having a fondness for songs that goes beyond the norm even for elves. "There is much that we cannot experience because of Galbatorix's madness," she agreed. She leaned against the battlements, watching the city rebuilding itself beneath her. "Do you believe that this is truly the final battle?"

Fayille nodded, picking up his harp and strummed gently once more, the tune of an unfamiliar song filling the air with its melancholic notes. "It is as the odd woman said years ago."

"Odd woman?" Arya asked.

"During the Fall, we met an odd woman with the gift for prophecy. We believed her not at first, but her words rang of power. There are some things we hid – memories we buried – that must only brought out once the circumstances are correct. It seems like everything she said are coming to pass, and I must escort an old friend to the Varden very soon for everything to be unveiled." Fayille eyed Arya. "Should your mother and your brother fall, you will be next in line for the throne. This war is full of uncertainty, Arya Drottningu. I must ask you to keep a secret for me."

* * *

The sound of clashing weapons greeted Murtagh as he headed to the training grounds which the elves now had control of. Most of their forces were still busy routing those who were attempting to resist their invasion, but a few of the younger elves were now allowed to practice and hone their skills in battle. He wanted to clear his mind by training with his sword, too.

He exchanged a few greetings with the elves, who are still in awe after the Riders managed to fend off Morzan and ruin Alfara's tail. He was about to seek a spot to train in when he heard someone call his name.

Tryndemiel was right behind him, sword in hand. He had an excited gleam in his eyes that made Murtagh think of Roran. "Ah, Shadeslayer," he called out with a smile. "I haven't seen you in these fields since we have taken the city. Would you like to spar?"

Murtagh could not say no to the man who protected his sister and her dragon on the ground while the battle with Morzan and Alfara went on. "Why of course. But I might not be as good as you are, Tryndemiel-elda, as it seems like you were born before the Fall."

"I fought in it," Tryndemiel agreed. "But I think you are a better swordsman. Oh, and please just call me Tryndemiel. I can't stand formalities."

Murtagh smiled and they did the standard blocking spells on their blades. He examined the turquoise blade as his new sparring partner regarded him. Aeryndight – if he remembered the name correctly – was slim and curved, made for quick drawing and swift attacks. Murtagh's Istalri felt heavier and slower, but then again it was made for both offense and defense.

Tryndemiel struck first, blade whipping toward Murtagh with unexpected speed. The Rider bent back just in time, or else the blunt blade would have clipped his chin. He struck back, and was stunned by the speed that the half-elf parried the blow. They exchanged blow after blow, and Murtagh realized just how much room there was for improvement, compared to someone who must have been honing his skills for over two centuries.

No wonder no one could last long against the Forsworn in a fair fight.

His muscles screamed as their sparring wore on, hoping that the older warrior would make a mistake. The two of them paused, as if waiting for the winds to direct them to their next strikes. Tryndemiel beamed. "I haven't found such a worthy sparring partner since my sisters moved to Osilon," he admitted. "How long have you been wielding a sword?"

"Since shortly after Thorn hatched for me," Murtagh admitted. "Two years, give or take a few months."

Tryndemiel nodded. "I have been training with a sword since I was thirteen. I truly took up my father's sword when I was nineteen."

Murtagh braced himself as the half-elf struck again. He raised his sword and twisted. Tryndemiel lost balance and whipped his sword sideways, and this time, he hit the Rider across the chest. Murtagh was flung away and landed on his back. Neither of them moved for a while.

Then Tryndemiel beamed and helped the Rider stand once more. "That was good. Very good." He regarded Murtagh with what seemed like renewed awe and admiration. "Give it a few more years, Shadeslayer, and I think you would be among the most fearsome warriors in the land. I could lend you a hand if you want to."

Murtagh looked down. "I am not the strongest. Roran is."

"Strength can only bring you so far. I am offering to teach you. From what I have heard from your fellow Riders, your sister is learning sorcery, and your brother's prowess with his mind is most remarkable. I am neither a proficient mage, nor a mindbreaker. I can barely protect my thoughts. But I am a swordsman and a jouster." Tryndemiel frowned. "I remember not most of my past – something happened, and Fayille is still unwilling to tell me more. But I have never had a pupil, I'm sure of that. I am still willing to teach everything I know."

Learning new techniques might just be the key. Their masters all learned from the same teacher – Oromis himself – and had similar fighting techniques thanks to that. He might finally learn something new – something that could help them gain an advantage against the Forsworn or even Galbatorix himself.

"I am most honored, ebrithil," he finally said.

"Please, none of that." Tryndemiel grinned and tried to lean against a nearby fence. He missed and fell flat on his backside. He shot to his feet, face red. "Ah, forgive me. It seems like I am still a lumbering fool outside of battle."

* * *

It is the night before the Varden was to lay siege to Belatona, and the camp was anything but silent. Eragon felt a great stirring in the air as he walked through the ranks of men finalizing their formations. He felt a great storm brewing in the minds of the men who were about to throw their lives on the line for the sake of freedom – a cause that they were all starting to believe with all their might.

He felt Saphira's excitement and bloodlust through their bond, despite the fact that the mighty dragon was flying a few leagues to the south, scouting for any ambushes, or a sign of the dwarves who would be on their way from the Beor Mountains.

 _It is something that we cannot avoid or set aside anymore, little one,_ she whispered softly. _We must fight, lest we live in fear forevermore._

 _I know. It's just that I'm not looking forward to taking more lives,_ Eragon mused, feeling weary all of a sudden. He felt much older than seventeen years old. Much, much older. _We are anything but children now. Not even the elves treat us the way they did when we first arrived in Ellesmera._

 _You are children bearing the burden of people much older than you. You have seen more than people twice your age. Why must you wonder, little one, when it is but proper for them to treat you as anything but children?_

 _I regret not the life I have led since you hatched for me._ Eragon approached Melikir's tent, where bright light emanated from despite the late hour. _But sometimes, I long for a quiet life. Just you, me, and our friends, somewhere isolated, maybe rebuilding the Riders from the ground up._

 _Someday, little one._ Saphira veered to the west as she spotted a formidable prey. _Someday._

Inside, Ash and the leader of the elven contingent, Jotnar, are in the middle of a heated discussion.

"It is my past, brother, and I very well should have the right to know what I have lost!" Ash slammed her fist on the table. Never before had Eragon seen her in such a rage – not even in battle. "I want to know what my connection to this Juvel is, and the identity of my lover!"

Jotnar seemed close to tears. "I know, sister, and forgive me. But we must wait for the right time – when everyone involved is here. We have all sworn our oaths, and not even you could way me."

Ash slumped forward and burst into tears. "I know, brother – you have said as much so many times before. But I want to know who he is. My heart yearns for him who I cannot even remember except for small glimpses. I want to know my child's fate."

Eragon moved forward, ending their conversation. His teacher turned to him, eyes bloodshot and sad. "Ah, Eragon. I'm glad that you received my message."

The younger Rider smiled in spite of himself. "How could I not, Master, when you asked Roran of all people to tell me? He will never rest until I agree to meet with you."

Ash inclined her head, and Jotnar turned to face Eragon, too. "How fares the preparations? Shall those you sent to Gil'ead arrive in time to aid us?"

Eragon shook his head. "Forgive me, Master. They have sent word earlier today – they are still needed in Gil'ead. It seems like minor rebellions break out by the hour. It might be a bit longer before they begin their march to Uru'baen."

"Humans will not be happy that elves have invaded their home." Jotnar turned to his sister, all former animosity forgotten. "It happened once before, in the same city. It cost them their king."

"It seems like we will not be in our full power when we take Belatona tomorrow, then," Ash concluded. "The Forsworn may also be kept divided though."

Jotnar rubbed his forehead. "I think… I think Galbatorix will want us to take Belatona freely. He will keep his Riders close to him for the final battle. That was what he did last time."

"Forgive me, Jotnar-elda, but this is not 'last time' anymore," murmured Eragon. "A storm is coming, and we either leap into it to follow its current, or dig our heels in and resist."

"He's right. The new Elder is right," Ash said. She stood up to her full height, all exhaustion gone from her face. "Come, both of you. We must discuss our strategy with Serylda."

Eragon nodded and followed the siblings out of the pavilion. _Saphira, are we strong enough to resist the storm?_

 _We are one, Eragon,_ the dragon replied ambiguously.

* * *

Astrid secured his armor as his twin, Claus, examined himself in the mirror. "Are you sure no one would suspect if I march with you, Brother?" he asked.

Claus shook his head, casually brushing off some dust from his pauldrons. "They will not even recognize you if you march with us." He secured his sword – the Blade of Lithgow – in his belt, and put on his helm. "So why did Melikir ask you to join the Surdan forces? I am sure there's a reason behind this, aside from being born in Lithgow. You owe no affiliation to Surda, nor Lithgow."

Astrid just shrugged. He did not wish to tell his brother that he was asked to act as a double if needed, as the recognized heir to Lithgow must be protected at all cost. "Someone has to keep Lord Herion's growing madness in check," he said, echoing Melikir's words the previous night. "Should you fall in battle, it will be difficult for the rest of us."

"Is that all? Truly?" Despite his usual air of nonchalance, the young lord-in-training was quite intelligent.

"Melikir finally noticed that I am expendable," Astrid told him, heading out of the tent.

Well, it was true. He had no family, so to speak. Despite being acquainted, his brother was but a stranger, and their father despised and feared him for some insane reason. He jested to deflect it all, but he was starting to realize it the longer he stayed in the Varden's camp. No one would mourn him, should he die – but his brother was needed to keep Herion at bay and protect Lithgow.

Savoring the last moments before the warriors were to march into formation, he strode through the frantic camp. The siege engines are being moved into place already, voices of the siege experts wafting in the pre-dawn air. At their head was Bjorne, his oldest and closest friend. He doubted that even she would mourn his passing. She still had her cousin, Hilde, and a bright future as an engineer in the kingdom. She was brilliant – lovely, and intelligent.

He turned away, not wishing to see her before the battle. He had a task to do, and it was best not to be distracted. He wove through the crowd, but took no more than ten paces when someone grabbed his armored hand.

"You have been avoiding me." Bjorne's sharp voice cut through his thoughts. He could feel her blue eyes staring at him sharply, her fiery hair dancing with the breeze. "Don't think I have not heard of your task."

Astrid kept his eyes away from hers. He was afraid of what he would see. "I do what Lord Melikir bids me to."

"You will do it wonderfully, and survive it." Bjorne turned away. "Come home to me."

Maybe there was still something worth fighting and living for.

* * *

 **As promised, so I shall deliver.**

 **Writing the characters of AtA as their older and wiser selves is a little challenging to me, as I haven't even finished that fic yet. xD For those who haven't, you should check it out. You won't regret it, as some parts of that story will be important here.**

 **Yes! Juvel! Ash! Yes! And I'm sure everyone has figured out who the dad is by now! XD**

 **We'll be having a Serylda POV next chapter. She needs more love. LOVE!**

 **Tryndemiel teaching Murtagh kind of made sense in my head, as the former honed his skills to protect the people who promised to be his family when he had no one else, while Murtagh is mainly driven to protect his family, both in blood and in bonds.**

 **Anyway, I'll be signing off for now. Read and review! Next chapter will be up later this week, and it is AtA again.**


	5. A Leap into the Fire

**Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle? Nope, definitely not mine.**

* * *

 **Chapter 5: A Leap into the Fire**

Dawn.

The Varden's army marched north to Belatona, the war horns sounding at the head of the host, rousing the defenders of Belatona. Serylda, mounted upon Aegar's back, took the lead among the seven Riders left to fight for the Varden. Around them are Faolin, the remaining elven spellcasters, and the new elven reinforcements led by her half-brother, Jotnar.

The dragons marched at the very back of the army, which slowly made its way to the city. As they closed the distance, arrows fired from the defensive walls. The ranks at the very front of the host raised their standards and let out their battle cries as they charged to the walls. As the Varden's catapaults set to work, Serylda raised her sword, signaling the other Riders. The dragons rose to the air as one, letting out a mighty roar.

From behind the defensive walls, three dragons also take the air. At the very head of the Forsworn was Kifain and his pink dragon, Palasin. Oh, how the years and the war had changed him. He was no longer the handsome – if slightly mad – Rider that had an obsession with her sister. She remembered that he and the original owner of Ash's second sword, Caliburn, butted heads many times, despite the fact that Eoran was never Ash's lover. He also nearly killed Ash's actual lover twice.

Flanking him are Enduriel, who was his closest friend in the years leading to the Fall, and the other human Rider, Insilbeth, who killed one of Serylda's dear friends.

She would never be forgiven for such an atrocity. Unfortunately, they must follow their oath. If Ash faced Kifain, she might find out about her missing past before the right people have been brought together as the soothsayer adviced.

 _Our task remains the same,_ she announced. _Ash, take Insilbeth. Kifain is mine. Eragon, Roran, I would appreciate it if you would take care of Enduriel for us. Vanir, Katrina, Nasuada, your task stays the same. Help our forces gain entry!_

Aegar soared toward Kifain, sitting proudly atop the fiery pink Palasin. His face, fairer than a human's, was now painted a ghastly white, red markings around his eyes and on his lips. As always, he was clad in red and green armor, and robes of the same color underneath. A plan gold circlet was resting upon his brow, a feather sticking out from his left temple. He was garish, mad, and terrifying all the same.

He bared his teeth as he veered toward Ash, and Serylda felt Aegar's concern. _We have to stop him,_ she growled.

Aegar let out a roar of challenge and barreled right against Palasin's ribs, throwing the older dragon off balance. _No you don't,_ he snarled.

Palasin reared and prepared to release a jet of flames. Bracing herself as they dodged, Serylda strengthened the defenses in her mind as Kifain struck. Despite his madness, which was worsened by the curse placed upon the Forsworn near the end of the first war, he was still an accomplished mind breaker and spellcaster. Serylda was competent enough in both fields, though she prefered using her weapons to settle fights.

 _I do not want him to do anything mad,_ she told Aegar as the dragons clashed, using their claws and teeth to gain dominance against their foe.

"I have no quarrel with you, Serylda," Kifain crooned in his high-pitched voice. "All I want is to face that dog. I'm sure he's here, if you and your sister have finally become brave enough to come out in the open once more."

Serylda gritted her teeth. "The Wolfhound is not here. You have wasted her time," she all but spat.

Kifain gritted his teeth. "Then it seems like I will have to force his location out of your inferior lips, then."

"You can try." Serylda hefted her sword, Hrunting, with a grin. "I am afraid I will have to disappoint you."

* * *

Nasuada felt the odd sensation in her stomach as Solaris plummeted down to dodge a burst of flames from Enduriel's dragon, Melvir. They landed on the eastern battlements, amidst a rain of arrows. Most of them missed, or glanced off due to Nasuada's newly-placed wards, but one of them grazed her cheek. She could see Jotnar and Juvel scaling the nearby walls, while Diamanda and Luneria circled the area, breathing fiery death upon the defenders. She dismounted from Solaris and drew her new sword.

 _It's time for us to play with them,_ she told Solaris. She raised her sword up high as some of the warriors drew their swords and charged. "Solus!"

She slammed the sword into the floor, and instead of it exploding like the gates to Feinster, golden light traveled along the cracks between bricks. They exploded on the first group of defenders' feet, incapacitating them immediately. This new feat burned through Nasuada's energy too quickly, though, and she was sure that she won't be able to achieve this effect once more for the duration of the fight. Instead, she contented herself with taking their foes head-on with Solaris' assistance. Eventually they were joined by the two half-elves, and they made short work of the last few warriors opposing them on their portion of the wall.

Juvel gazed at the city swarming with guards. "There is a powerful magician hidden beyond," he mused in his deep, boyish voice that sounded a little familiar. "I can't break through their minds."

Nasuada inclined her head. "Then we will have to do something about it." She clambered up Solaris' back again and secured herself with the straps. "The most important thing for now is to do as Masters Serylda and Ash asked us to. I will open the gates while you clear the path for your kin."

Solaris flared her wings and leapt to the top of the guarded gates, throwing the warriors stationed on that area off the wall with a mighty sweep of her claws. Nasuada dismounted once more as she noticed a fiery orange mass come crashing down a few feet in front of her – Enduriel and Melvir.

Focusing on her task, she ran to the small entrance to the stairs leading down to the guardroom. Leaving Solaris to defend her, she made her way down. It was easier to start from the top than land at the very bottom and contend with the warriors swarming the city. She kept her mental shield up, but sensed the nearby presence of Vanir and Diamanda.

 _What is your situation?_ She asked as she frantically broke the door into the lower level.

 _We have joined Solaris. I will be on my way to you shortly,_ the elf replied. _Inform me immediately if you are in any danger._

 _As you wish._

Nasuada found herself facing five swordsmen and a mage. She dodged a blast of light that headed her way and thrust with her mind, instantly crippling the mage with the force of her attack. Hefting her sword, she prepared to finish the fight and lower the gates.

* * *

Dawn.

Arya made sure that everyone was accounted for. Murtagh and Thorn stood nearest to her and Firnen, studying a map of the area around Gil'ead with the help of a disembodied light he conjured. Aesyr sat by Sardonis' foot, discussing some spells quietly with Mindeth and Lord Fayille's son, Randarion. Their other elven guards, Elmyra and Aviana, stood nearby, watching the slow progress of the sun on the horizon. Lastly was their new companion, the half-elf Tryndemiel, clad in blue-green armor of a most curious design.

They were the small force that Queen Islanzadi sent to waylay a group of fifty men that were on their way to Gil'ead – reinforcements sent by King Galbatorix. The mere fact that he could only spare so much people most probably meant that the Varden's campaign in the south was doing well.

"It is time," she called out as the horizon turned into the color of Glaedr's scales.

She felt her gut twist as she remembered her fallen masters.

Randarion and Mindeth joined Murtagh and Thorn. Aviana and Elmyra joined Aesyr and Sardonis. That left Arya and Firnen to take Tryndemiel with them. In light of the information Fayille imparted upon her two nights ago, she felt anxious around the half-elf. She was afraid that she might say something wrong and reveal something that she shouldn't.

"Curious," Tryndemiel began as he secured himself with the passenger straps deftly. "I am sure that I've flown with a Rider and a dragon before. I cannot remember who they were though, try as I might."

"I am sure that you will recall in due time, Tryndemiel-elda," Arya said, remembering what Fayille told her.

The half-elf sighs. "How many times must I insist that you call me by my name and nothing more? I deserve no praise." He was a hero in the Fall, and yet it seemed like he did not remember – or was too humble to acknowledge such a fact.

They flew along the main road leading to Uru'baen until the sun had fully risen, covering a good distance during the hour thanks to the dragons' steady growth. Sure enough, there was a group of armed men, who began to shoot arrows as the dragons came into view. Tryndemiel began to raise his shield, but Arya held out her hand. "Such a trivial amount of arrows will be taken care of by our wards. Fear not."

The dragon landed and let loose jets of vividly-colored flames to incinerate the first group of warriors. The Riders and their companions dismounted with swords drawn, charging their foes with a yell. Behind them, they could hear the burning men laughing and giggling as they continued walking forward.

"The laughing dead!" Roran cried out as he aimed for a warrior's head.

Arya gritted her teeth, remembering the sheer terror and chaos that less than two hundred of these men caused upon the Varden's entire host. "We must aim for the heads!" she yelled.

"What?" Tryndemiel asked, planting his blade into his foe's chest and earning nothing but a gurgling, mad laugh.

"They are men without pain. The quickest way to kill them is to behead them – or damage their heads." Arya ducked as her foe swung his ax. She did not fight the men during their attack on the Varden, as she was busy fighting the Forsworn with the rest of her friends.

Their laughter was the most unsettling thing about them.

Despite her best efforts, she could not just ignore those. She struggled and fought as the Laughing Dead not yet turned to ashes by dragonfire bgan to whittle away at their strength one by one. _It was a trick,_ she realized with horror. _King Galbatorix expected Queen Islanzadi to send her best in order to dispatch what seemed like an easy threat!_

She knew that they were also sent as a messagea to them, should they survive. She could not point out the exact message, but she wanted to defy it and Galbatorix's will. She raised her sword up high and slammed it on the ground. "Deloi!"

The ground beneath her shook, throwing most of the combatants of balance. With their grace and speed though, Arya's party had the upper hand and were able to destroy more of their foes as the trembling increased. Arya kept the spell up until she was on the verge of losing consciousness.

* * *

Tryndemiel watched as the last of the men with no pain trembled and gurgled in laughter, the madman's life slowly sapping out of him before young Murtagh stepped forward to cut off his head. It was a thing that would not live even in his worst nightmares – those that made any sense, with his confused recollections of everything during and prior to the Fall. He rubbed his chest, feeling an empty ache as he tried to recall and failed yet again.

He could recall her eyes, a pale green shade like the jade earrings she once wore with her rustling auburn dress. Her voice was as lovely as a river creek, her golden hair smelling like crushed mint leaves. He could not remember her face itself, try as he might. It hurt – oh, it hurt – for deep within him, he was sure that he still loved her despite the loss of his memories.

She definitely lived, but how she is faring, or why they parted, he could not recall. He was sure that they married in the way that humans did, though. They had children – lovely twins, he knew, but he did not know what they looked like, or if they lived past their infancy.

He closed his eyes as the Riders discussed their next move, praying to any god that may exist that he could meet her just one time before they marched into Uru'baen. It was a prayer that he knew would be in vain, but he was still hoping against all hope.

* * *

 **A short filler chapter, but I wanted a quick transition before I move to the actual coverage of the first chapter in Inheritance. I know I should be writing AtA but a part in the next chapter just stumped me and I wrote this chapter instead. xD**

 **This should have been uploaded yesterday, but real life Tryndemiel beckons (I'll just call him RLT from now on.)**

 **And yes. Ash wields Caliburn, which should be familiar to you from either Bloodlines, chapter 12 of AtA, or both.**

 **We'll be having a family reunion in the foreseeable future, though it seems like one of them is still unaccounted for, if Tryndemiel's actual remaining memories aren't faulty. Eh?**

 **Read and review, as always!**


	6. Leaping into the Fray

**Disclaimer: I seriously don't own anything. AT ALL.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Leaping into the Fray**

Eragon couldn't help but feel a sense of elation as Saphira roared. Seeing all the enemy soldiers qualing in sheer terror gave him a sense of satisfaction. Despite being outmatched by the Forsworn, he realized that their foes still feared them.

He raised his sword, glowing faintly and covered in frost. "To me, warriors of the Varden!" he cried out. "For Alagaesia!"

The other Riders and the host of warriors assembled around them echoed his cry, drowning Belatona with their resounding roars. They stayed at the head of the mass, unflinching even when arrows narrowly missed them thanks to their wards. They faced their foes bravely – the last defenders of Belatona, gathered in the great courtyard of Lord Bradburn's keep.

Eragon leapt off Saphira's back to join his fellow Riders and the small group of elves gathered around them. Together, they led the charge into the keep, running through the great hole created by the dragons who were rising to the air, ready to rain fire and death upon their enemies. Unfortunately, it seemed like their foes were warded against dragonfire. In the five minutes it took to fill the courtyard with warriors of the Varden, only three soldiers succumbed to the joint forces of the seven dragons in attendance.

The warriors surged forward, attempting to batter their foes.

 _Not even wards of those from the city walls could withstand the flames for more than a few seconds,_ Katrina announced, as troubled as the rest of their group.

 _Could it be one of the Forsworn?_ Eragon asked as he raised his shield, blocking off a hail of arrows that sailed past his wards. _I don't think any of them are here._

Thus began the dance of death and fire and blood, as the Riders led the charge against the soldiers, swords swinging with flashes of light. A small distance to the left, Roran had forgone the use of his sword and armed himself with the hammer he received as a final gift in Ellesmera, what felt like lifetimes ago.

Jotnar, Blodhgarm and two other elves from the reinforcements scaled the archers' side of the wall, burning blades in hand.

Eragon focused on the battle at hand, decapitating an attacking ax-man. He twisted to evade a sword blow to his back, and retaliated by piercing the man through the eye with his icy blade. The battle was slowly reaching its logical conclusin as the multitude of soldiers slowly but surely began to surrender to the Varden.

The Riders strode across the courtyard to join the throngs of warriors preparing to storm the keep and truly finish the siege of Belatona. Eragon could hear his uncle, Garrow, barking orders down the line to his squad of men – half of them from Carvahall – with his famous ego-flaying yells. The dragons began to circle the keep, casting their threatening shadows upon their foes.

The loud clanking and groaning of gears permeated the air, causing pain to Eragon's ears. _It seems like having enhanced hearing is not a gift all the time._

 _Aye,_ Murtagh groaned. _It is most definitely not music to the ears._

"Be on your guard," Ash barked along the lines of warriors, hands flying to the pommels of her mismatched blades. The dragons landed, lining themselves near the keep entrance.

Eragon had his shield at the ready, Vorstnar's blue blade gleaming even under the dying sunlight. He watched as the doors parted and flew open, the smoke of the torches within fogging the sight of some warriors. A horseman rode forth from the smoldering darkness, an odd lance in hand. Its barbed blade was made of an unfamiliar green material, its head aglow. There could only be one reason for such a phenomenon: magic.

The Rider turned to the nearest dragon, Diamanda, who raised her claw, ready to strike. Without thinking, Eragon hurled his thoughts toward the foe, and he felt his fellow Riders do the same. With the man so focused onhis task though, all they could sense was his determination and nothing else. Fear gripped Eragon as he opened his mouth to cry out a spell, aware that the white dragon wasn't the only one in danger.

He heard one of the elves behind him murmur something before he could even utter a syllable though. The courtyard mosaic beneath the horse suddenly shifted, like molten liquid come to life. A rift in the ground suddenly yawned open, trapping the horse's front legs and breaking them. The rider began to tumble down and hurled the glowing lance toward the angered Diamanda. Vanir lurched forward as the white dragon tried to swat the lance and missed. The lance sank a yard into her shoulder, and two roars filled the air.

The elven Rider collapsed on the ground, writhing in his dragon's pain. Eragon knew what to do. Ignoring his masters' cries of warning, he leapt forward, swift as a river. His training paid off as he dug his elbow into the horseman's face, breaking some teeth. The man had yet to recover from his fall when Eragon stabbed his blade right through the man's eye and through his head.

A loud wail of anguish permeated from the window above them moments before it exploded, raining fiery blocks of stone upon the Varden.

* * *

Loud footsteps echoed through the drafty hallways of Gil'ead's keep, which Aesyr recalled from her lessons as having once been the human kings' palace before being rebuilt after the war. The Riders and their half-elven guide have been summoned to the dungeons, where the suspected leader of the city's resistance forces was incarcerated. Lord Fayille had left them with instructions to interrogate the man for details. They needed every scrap of information regarding those who have been causing chaos in the streets, assaulting elves and slaughtering innocents. Unfortunately the dragons had to stay outside, as Gil'ead's lower levels were too cramped for their sizes and therefore are not available to terrify the enemy into cooperating.

They have been carefully instructed not to kill him though, as the queen shall pass judgement once she and her forces return from the siege of Ceunon.

Aesyr gritted her teeth. What use would Riders be if they were merely left in a walled city instead of accompanying the army that they were sent to aid? At least Arya was good in helping the elves manage the city, as she was a princess. Even Murtagh had something to do, as he was learning new fighting techniques from Tryndemiel. She had nothing to pass the time with, aside from trying to sense the spirits dormant in the city and trying to hone her sorcery.

This was most likely the most eventful day she had since they fought with the Laughing Dead one week ago, though she inwardly cringed at the thought of possibly torturing a prisoner. Murtagh seemed so grim and try as Aesyr might to imitate her eldest brother's expression, she merely ended up looking so ridiculous. She hoped she could at least be as intimidating as her fellow Riders. Unfortunately she was the one with the meek face.

The elf ladies guarding the entrance to the dungeons snapped into attention as the Riders and their entire entourage arrived.

The taller elf raised her helm visor, revealing a beautiful face lit up by golden eyes. Some of her dark curls tumbled down. "Brother, I did not expect you so early," she said, inclining her head to Tryndemiel.

 _They must be half-siblings,_ Murtagh noted lazily.

 _That's Tear Swordmaiden,_ Arya said. _She's said to be among the best sword wielders in Du Weldenvarden, bested only by her only brother and Lord Jotnar of House Thranduin._ The elf Rider's eyes flitted to Tryndemiel with newfound admiration.

The half-elf mentioned grinned good-naturedly to his sister. "Early. That's me, yes." He crossed his arms. "And there I was thinking that you were supposed to be in Ceunon."

Tear's vivid eyes tightened. "It was most unfortunate that matters changed." She didn't seem that sad though. She glanced at her companion, who had just taken off her helm.

Aesyr nearly leapt when she saw that the shorter warrior was actually a half-elf. The woman was slenderly-built, with straight dark hair curtaining her pale face. Light green eyes peered at the Riders with curiosity.

Tryndemiel staggered back, as if hit on the head by a frying pan. He stared at the half-elf with dazed eyes, but he said nothing. Tear tilted her head curiously. "Oh, I have not introduced my new pupil to you yet, have I? She is Illumis, a war orphan. She must be one of the last half-elves born before the Fall."

"As much as I am aware of, no half-elf had been born for over a hundred before the Fall," Tryndemiel said weakly. "But never mind that. We have a job to do here, Tear, and I would appreciate it if you let us through."

Tear raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "And you presume to speak for the Riders now, little brother of mine?"

Aesyr cleared her throat. "Forgive us, Tear-elda, but he is our mentor in this. We have never dealt with interrogations and prisoners before."

"So I have noticed." Tear smiled. "Long has it been since I have seen Riders who are hardened by years and years of battle."

"And so you shall again, once this war is over," Arya said carefully. "Please let us through, my lady, we have matters to deal with before the queen returns."

Tear bowed and stepped aside, opening the dungeon entrance. As they made their way through the chilly corridor smelling of dampness and worse things, Aesyr turned to their senior. "Your sister is most odd, Tryndemiel-elda."

The half-elf made a face. "Please stop giving me those honorifics, Rider. My brain hurts." He smiled and shook his head. "Tear had been acting differently since after the Fall. It is not her fault, as we have all changed since then."

* * *

As elven healers surrounded the wounded Diamanda and the shaky Vanir, Nasuada swallowed down the terror and concern she felt for her friends and made her way to Brom, Jotnar, and Faolin, who have presented the odd lance to Ash and Serylda.

Other elves murmured among themselves curiously. "'Tis a most curious weapon," Juvel the half-elven warrior mused, stroking the thin stubble above his lip. "I have never seen such a thing before."

"That is because you were a babe when the Fall ended," Jotnar noted. "It is normal."

Ash nodded darkly. "This is of elven work."

Nasuada raised an eyebrow. "A dark work such as this was crafted by elves?" she asked in numb disbelief. Though the weapon was elegantly made, as she had to admit, why would such a thing be created by elves?

Faolin smiled. "It is a knowledge rarely divulged, my young friend. This is a rare and powerful weapon, as you must have noticed. If this truly was made by Galbatorix, he would not let it lie around in a place where we could take it. He would keep it upon his person, afraid that we shall use it against him or his Forsworn. I do not think he knows of its existence."

"This is the Dauthdaert, Niernen. The Orchid," Jotnar said, peering at the elegant runes carved into the blade that Nasuada did recognize as the ones used by elves.

"I'm sorry, but I have not heard of a Dauthdaert," Nasuada said. Despite being educated appropriately as Ajihad's daughter, their resources in the Varden and Tronjheim were still somehow limited to texts salvaged from the Fall and Tronjheim's dwarven library, which rarely dealt with materials outside of the stone-bound race's culture.

Ash smiled in understanding. "As much as we wanted to fill you with so much knowledge, there were many subjects that we have missed. Forgive me, my young friend." She drew herself up to her full height. "Elder Nasuada, the Dauthdaertya were weapons born of the fear that the elves felt near the end of their war against the dragons. I am sure that you are as aware as I am that they have… unique ways of thinking. Their most skilled smiths and spellcasters crafted long-lost and long forgotten materials and wove ancient and unfamiliar spells around them. They foolishly created twelve of them, named after the most beautiful flowers. Maybe such names were used to mask the fact that they were made to kill dragons."

"With shame, we must admit that they have been drenched in too much blood of long-dead dragons," Serylda continued in a terrified whisper. "We believed them to be destroyed beyond recovery, but it seems like one survived."

Brom scowled. "It must be the most precious of Lord Bradburn's treasures." He turned to the corpse of the late Lord of Belatona. "He must have panicked when he learned that dragons have joined the siege."

Juvel, young as he was compared to the rest of the elves assembled around them – and even Brom – stared at the Dauthdaert with undisguised revulsion. "What makes it so special, then? I suppose it must have similar spells to those that Rhunon-elda wove around Riders' blades, but what makes it different?"

Jotnar smiled tiredly. "They are impervious to fire, and designed specifically to withdstand any magic a dragon may bring upon the land, and protect the wielder against dragons too. The spells wrought are as complex as dragon magic itself. Not even Galbatorix may be fully immune to it."

Serylda turned to Nasuada, deference on her face. Such a look was so unfamiliar on the elf's face. "Elder Nasuada, we must decide on what to do with this weapon."

"W-why are you asking me?" Nasuada asked, taken aback.

 _Sometimes you are very foolish, my Rider,_ Solaris noted, padding over from the group of elves gathered around the recovering Diamanda.

Serylda smiled. "You and your friends are the Elders now, and we must follow protocol – especially as we are at war. You are the only Elder currently not preoccupied."

A loud, roaring squeal penetrated the air, a crack blooming from the window that the elven spellcasters destroyed spectacularly by accident. The crack hit and shattered the keystone above the entrance doors, causing pebbles to rain upon the warriors of the varden. The portion damaged by the crack began to lean outward, threatening to crush the warriors at the front. Garrow of Carvahall, and his sister Selena Nightblade were yelling for the men to run, but they themselves were helpless against the wall that was about the crash.

The men could run to safety, but there would be no time for them to flee.

* * *

They entered the last cell to the left, and Murtagh braced himself to face the prisoner that they were to deal with. He was surprised by the assumed rebel leader's appearance. He was young, quite young, maybe in his late twenties at the most. His face was clean-shaven, his unassuming features framed by brown curls, dark eyes peering at the Riders curiously despite the uncomfortable way that his arms and legs were bound.

"You will glean nothing from me," he said with a sneer as Arya shut the door behind her.

Murtagh glared at him, hand on the pommel of his sword. "We'll see about that."

Tryndemiel gave him a sharp look. "Rider, it would be much appreciated if you try to break into his thoughts."

Murtagh nodded and turned to the rebel, who watched him with a defiant air. He opened his mind wide, letting Thorn join with him. He tried to bore a hole into the rebel's iron-hard defenses, but it seemed like he was sufficiently warded. The red Rider turned to Tryndemiel and shook his head. "Now what?"

Tryndemiel strode forward and whipped out a knife from his sleeves. He set the weapon down deftly, planting its blade between the prisoner's legs, piercing the wooden chair. "We would truly appreciate it if you would cooperate with us, fricai."

The prisoner spoke no word. He did not even show fear or surprise.

"Shall we torture him now?" Arya asked in a singsong voice.

Tryndemiel smiled. "Soon, Princess." He whipped out another knife and planted it beside the first, right next to the prisoner's groin. "Now, will you sing for us?"

Sweat trickled down the man's face, but still betrayed no fear.

Tryndemiel tapped the knife playfully, never breaking eye contact for ten minutes. He pulled out more knives from somewhere as he stayed in his place, planting all of them precariously near the prisoner's body. Eventually, he seemed to tire of it and rose to his feet. "It seems like we shall have to resort to secret elven methods," he said with a grin. "Murtagh, please get me some rope, a live mouse, and some beef jerky." He paused and added, "Maybe you should also fetch a steaming mug of tea, some flour, and maybe a rock."

The prisoner gulped. "Fine, fine! I'll talk! J-just don't do anything to me," he stammered.

The half-elf grinned and motioned for Arya and Aesyr to complete the interrogation. He turned to Murtagh. "I had no idea what I was going to do with those implements," he muttered almost inaudibly. "But those kinds of bluffs served us well in interrogating enemies during the Fall."

* * *

 **Nothing that spoilery here regarding AtA, I hope. Tryndemiel's interrogation scene sounded funnier in my head. Ugh.**

 **I seriously was just so excited to adapt the opening chapters of Inheritance, so I had to write this in a rush. To compensate I whipped up a playlist for Ash and Tryndemiel for those who are eagerly waiting for the big ol' wedding in AtA. You can check it on my profile. Heehee.**

 **I'm sure keen-eyed and not-so-keen-eyed readers both have noticed who exactly Illumis is. xD**

 **Team Murtagh will be leaving Gil'ead eventually, but not until AtA ends. Heehee. Team Eragon will be making stuff go boom next chapter.**

 **As for Eoran and Sev, I'll be keeping mum for now. Because I'm evil.**

 **Read and review, as always!**


	7. Into the Dusk

**Disclaimer: You guys know the drill.**

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Into the Dusk**

Roran's breath stopped as the wall collapsed, burying his father, his aunt, and twenty men from Carvahall between a twenty-foot high mound of ruined stone. "No!" he cried out as he raced towards the spot, ignoring the cloud of dust restricting his breath. He leapt through the rubble, casting a quick spell to get rid of the dust and dirt around him.

The people around him were wary of an attack, but he felt Eragon and Katrina scrambling right behind him, ignoring the chaos ensuing around the keep. "We have to shift the stones," he said breathlessly.

"Eragon, I don't think we'll be able to move these rocks properly," Katrina called out, even the mere sound of her voice making Roran's blood sing.

 _In there. We couldfind a way around the rubble in there ,_ Roran realized, glancing at the fleeing soldiers and the exposed portions of the keep. He led the climb through the rubble and reached the exposed second storey.

He entered the second storey with a powerful leap and drew Kveykva with one hand, his hammer in the other. He slammed his armored shoulder against the heavy oak doors, sending them toppling down and giving Eragon and Katrina enough time to catch up. They sprinted down the corridor, their footsteps echoing all around the area. They finally reached a study populated by at least five armed men that were arguing over a map.

 _No need to waste life,_ Eragon noted.

Roran nodded and kept running, pleased that his improved stamina meant that he didn't even have to pant anymore. His group reached a winding staircase and he threw himself onto it, taking it five steps at a time, descending to the first storey and knocking out an archer with the hilt of his sword along the way.

The Riders emerged into a high-vaulted chamber that made Roran think of grand palaces and even Tronjheim itself. Shields and weapons hung on the wall, adorned with fiery pennants. The narrow windows beneath the ceiling were closed, the fiery torches along the walls their only source of light. A dais at the end of the room contained a dais with a high-backed chair. A robed, bearded man stood before it – and fifty soldiers stood to their right, right before the door leading to the keep entryway. Roran glared at the gold threads of their tunics.

"K-kill them," the robed man squeaked, sounding like a terrified child of all things. "The men who shall slay them will have a third of my treasure!"

"Barzul," Roran growled. "You think that is a good idea?"

Swords aglow with their special properties, the three Riders stood side-by-side, looking fierce with their battle-hardened stances. Eragon raised his chin and smiled fiercely. "Are you going to move, or must we cut our way past you?"

The soldiers hesitated for a while, staring at them as if dumbfounded. Then they turned and bolted away as one. The three gave the soldiers a headstart then leaned forward and dashed right passed their craven group. Eragon thrust his fiery sword forward and blew up the double doors leading into the entrance and through a hallway full of soldiers and the mechanisms needed to open the keep gates. They reached the iron portcullis separating them from Garrow and Selena.

Katrina stepped forward and raised her blade with a beatific smile. "Let me," she said with a soft chuckle. "Manen." Her sword flared a vivid silver and she used it to cut through the portcullis like butter. A man-sized portion fell off with a resounding clang.

It felt like the world suddenly fell into darkness when the three Riders extinguished the magic that set their blades aglow. They finally reached their destination – the area ruined by debris – where loud shouts and the sounds of a fight could be heard.

"Naina," Roran said idly, using a ghostly purple light to illuminate the area.

Covered in dirt, blood, ashes, and sweat, Garrow and Selena stood back to back, surrounded by five solders – who all winced and raised their hands to shield their eyes from the blazing light. Garrow and Selena moved together in one deft move, slaying the two soldiers nearest to them. Roran slew another one with a hammer blow to the man's head and he was sure that Eragon and Katrina took care of the last two.

"About time," Garrow barked.

* * *

Aesyr followed her companions out of their prisoner's cell, a sheaf of paper in hand. "We have five names here. Three are lords here in the inner city, one is a smith in the outer city, and the other one is a merchant who might not even be using his true name," she said quickly as soon as they were out of earshot.

Arya nodded. "But at least we now know who are the king's eyes and ears in this city. I am sure that they are being paid to sustain their rebellion."

Murtagh crossed his arms, his eyes on the stairs they were climbing. "Well, then we are going to put a stop to that."

"Confident, are we?" Arya told him with a small chuckle.

"We have to be, I believe."

Aesyr looked down, wondering if she could ever have enough confidence as her companions. _I suppose he is right, though,_ she relented.

 _What causes your doubts, little one?_ Sardonis asked. _With me by your side, it would take more than the Forsworn to bring you down. We are as unstoppable as the turn of seasons._

 _I hope you are right – for our sake._ She looked up as they finally made it out of the dungeons.

The elf lady and her companion – Tear and Illumis – were waiting for them patiently. The former tilted her head in acknowledgement as she let them pass through. "I hope your trip down there was worth it," she said cheerfully.

Tryndemiel mirrored her grin, enhancing their resemblance to each other. "It was most elnlightening. I've applied some things that I have learned from you."

"I hope you're not mocking me, dear little brother." Tear smirked. "My mate would not appreciate it."

"I have been living with you since the Fall and I have yet to see this mate." Tryndemiel frowned – as if bothered by something deeper than what he just said. "Sometimes I wonder if he truly exists."

Tear laughed. "Must you doubt me? You shall meet him soon." She turned to the Riders. "I hope being supervised by my brother has been informative for you, Shur'tugalar."

Arya chuckled. "Oh, it was, Tear-elda."

Murtagh snorted. He rolled his eyes at Tryndemiel. "We have learned some things about elves that we truly have not expected – most of it involving knives."

Illumis laughed at that. She straightened up and gave her mentor a knowing look. "Tear-elda has a penchant for those weapons, though she is most gifted when it comes to swordsmanship. I wish I could be half as skilled as she is someday. She said my father is a very talented swordsman – but I cannot even disarm younger elves."

"You might just need a little more time," Tryndemiel offered kindly. Gazing at his fellow half-elf made him seem dazed, as if he never saw anyone like him before. "Have Tear take you to me once you are relieved of your guard duty. I'll tutor you with young Murtagh here."

"That is most kind of you, dear brother," replied Tear – looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. "I'm afraid she and I will be quite busy these next few days. I'm sure you know that we work under Lord Fayille until we leave Gil'ead. We're quite preoccupied."

"Oh." The half-elf man's face fell. "I see. Very well. Next time, then." He turned to the Riders. "Well, let's go, then. We have a few visits to make before this day ends."

They bade farewell to Tear and Illumis and headed to the upper levels of the keep. Aesyr let out a tense breath that she didn't know she was holding. There was something unsettling about the dungeons – and it was coupled with her slowly gaining awareness of people's emotions that had nothing to do with her access to their minds. She could feel Murtagh's excitement, Arya's quiet anticipation, and Tryndemiel's confusion.

She had an overwhelming urge to help him, for some reason.

* * *

 _"It involves a man, a man like me. He had elven features."_ She remembered her teacher, Ash, speaking those words shortly before they left Feinster – about not remembering someone important to her for some undisclosed reason. She was sure Ash was speaking of Tryndemiel, but she was afraid of breaching the topic with him. Despite being quite amiable, he was still a stranger.

Tryndemiel stopped walking and stumbled on his own shoelaces. "Ah, sorry about that!" He groaned as he bent down to tie them once more. "I think we must try to appear as intimidating as we could. Put on your best armor and meet me at the keep entrance in half an hour."

Aesyr felt herself smile. That sounded like something she could do – dress in her best armor, that is. She could never appear intimidating even after the transformation.

Ash looked past the dust and to the exposed portion of the keep that Roran, Eragon, and Katrina charged into. She was sure that they had ideas of saving both Lady Selena and the warrior Garrow – and leaving Lord Bradburn still within. They had to do something about that man. She glanced at Brand. _You know what to do._

 _Clear the rubble, rescue survivors, of course. Little one, we've been doing this for years and years._ Brand sounded almost bored by the procedures, but there was a genuine tone of worry and concern coloring his thoughts.

 _I will be fine, Brand. I always am._ She smiled and patted her dragon's arm before turning to her fellow Riders – Nasuada, Vanir, and Serylda herself. "I believe a certain lord has been on his seat far too long for comfort. Let us relieve him of his burden."

Vanir nodded, though the poor child was still a little pale from sharing his dragon's ordeal. "Very well, Master."

"We're coming with you," a high, clear voice said.

Jotnar approached her with his ward, Juvel. As always, the unfamiliar half-elf gave her an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach – as if telling her that the boy should have been familiar. He was definitely not a boy anymore but to someone as old as her – ah, he may as well be. She closed her eyes to steady herself for a moment.

"Let's not tarry," Serylda finally declared, leading the climb through the rubble and into the second storey of the keep – which Roran's group traversed just a few minutes prior.

The faintly metallic smell of blood permeated the air and Ash hoped that her students were well. They walked through hall after empty hall, stopping only to search rooms for enemies or Lord Bradburn himself. They eventually reached the curving stairs giving them two options – down to the main hall and up to the rest of the keep.

"I say we move up," Nasuada declared. "That's what I would do if I were a lady with a besieged castle. There'd be more time to decide on the next course of action and begin a final line of defense."

Ash nodded. The girl was right. Brandishing her mismatched blades, she led the charge upstairs. The smell of smoke, sweat, and dust was prevalent in the area. She heard a thunder of footsteps as she turned around a corner and into a curved archway, and barely had time to dodge a number of spears jabbed right at her. Unable to dodge on time, she was struck on the waist and her left arm. Driven into an angered frenzy, Ash struck forward with her flashing blades to behead the nearest soldier. She could hear her companions leaping into the fray.

They made short work of the soldiers – and it was only then that Ash actually felt pain from her cuts. She forced herself to straighten up though. Healing could wait. They had to find Bradburn first and they might end up in more fights before they did. It would be best for them to conserve their energy. Juvel approached her apprehensively as they continued their way through the keep.

"Rider, it would be my pleasure to heal those wounds," he began nervously. "They might distract you at a crucial moment."

"I can move around fine," she replied with a gracious smile. She felt an odd warmth in her heart as she looked at him and felt an odd ache within her. "Do not waste your energy over something as trivial as this."

"I insist." Juvel smiled and extended his hands. "Waise heill." His hands glowed a pale blue-green for a short second as his magic took effect.

Ash felt the familiar discomfort of wounds closing. "It was not necessary," she began. "But thank you."

Juvel's smile widened and he withdrew.

They reached the highest room in the western tower and found it barricaded. Ash touched the doors and sighed. "These could merely be locked – we can't rule out that he actually fortified them with all the heavy objects he could lay his hands on."

"Best if we remove the doors first, then," said Jotnar, cracking his knuckles. For a moment, he looked like the young Lord of House Thranduin.

Together, brother and sister used their magic to disassemble the doors – and also get rid of the ridiculous tower of furniture behind them. Brandishing their weapons, they charged into the room and faced the highest ranking retainers and castle guards that remained to protect their lord. They all blanced as they realized just who they were facing.

Ash grinned. "I'm sure you still value your lives," she said cheerfully. "So I suggest that you surrender."

As one, the men dropped their weapons and shields on the floor and raised their hands in surrender.

* * *

Tryndemiel examined his reflection in the mirror. The turquoise armor he wore still felt comfortable despite the fact that he did not wear it for years and years. It held memories – both missing and not. He remembered wearing it splattered in blood as he paced back and forth againt a fiery Doru Araeba. He remembered focusing on its soft creaks and clangs to drown out the worry and terror he felt for his lover as she fought for her life – and that of their children.

He made sure that Aeryndight was in its proper place on his belt and tied its new partner beside it – the bright yellow Laevatein, amusingly meaning "damaging twig" in the ancient language. He remembered not who owned it before, but he was sure that she still lived. It was a good alternative whenever Aeryndight's length was not preferable – such as in cramped spaces.

He dusted his cloak, which matched the color of his eyes. He remembered his lover using it as her maidencloak despite the fact that she was definitely no maiden when they wed. He remembered leaving it in her hands when he first departed in Ellesmera. He did not remember the details, but he recalled the tears in her eyes.

He reluctantly turned away from the mirror. He had a job to do.

* * *

 **Long time no update! I was supposed to upload the next chapter for AtA which was partially written since I last updated, but emotional turmoil forced me to lay off it for the meantime.**

 **Oh, regarding Tryndemiel taking Murtagh as his swordfighting pupil and Aesyr wanting to help him (and Ash)? Let's just say that blood is thicker than water.**

 **For those who don't remember Illumis from Ashes to Ashes? Good job! She hasn't made an appearance yet. She will toward the end, though.**

 **Also had to put off Team Eragon's explosive pyrotechnics until next chapter. Keep an eye out for it. Heh.**

 **Read and review, as always!**


	8. Of News and Kings

**Chapter 8: Of News and Cats**

The sun was setting by the time the Varden began to occupy Belatona's keep. Melikir had the elves send the soldiers and surviving nobles to the dungeons for questioning and so that they may weed out those who swore oaths and those who acted of their own accord. King Orrin and his retinue took care of making the keep inhabitable for them, at least for the time being.

As for Eragon, he led the rest of the Riders through the winding stairs up to the westernmost tower, to the highest room where one could observe the terrain around them. They feared no attack, as everyone hostile had been flushed out, Lord Bradburn himself slain. Besides, with the dragons soaring around the tower, they had eyes and ears outside the walls too.

Their destination was empty save for a pair of sad, crimson banners propped against a part of the circular room.

The Varden's trumpets began to sound, some of them close to the keep and others quite far. The Riders exchanged glances, worried and baffled. _Saphira, what's going on?_ asked Eragon.

 _I don't know._ The blue dragon was obviously uncomfortable with not knowing. _I want to have a look but we must not leave you little ones._

Methodically, the Riders circled the windows around the room to see what they could glean from the lofty tower. The west and south revealed only Belatona, a sprawling city that prospered as a trading hub. The buildings changed from simple wooden structures to imposing ones made of stone the closer they were to the keep, reminding Eragon of Teirm. A smoky haze still filled the air though the battle halted hours ago, reminding them of the buildings that caught fire, property that was damaged.

Southwest itself revealed the Varden's camps, an expanse of tents and pavilions made of a variety of cloth - from gray wool to the finest silk. Colorful pennants waved around lazily in the breeze as the last groups of wounded men were ushered to the tired healers.

The north revealed Leona Lake, its usual still waters rippling as if troubled. Over it loomed a dark wall of clouds occasionally speckled with blue lightning.

Last was the window that faced the courtyard, where a steady stream of warriors moved to and from the keep, scrambling to flee against something - or have a closer look. Eragon gazed farther east, past the courtyard and to a strip of land a few miles away, just down the other side of the Jiet River. A group of figures - some on four legs and some on two - were making their way to the keep. They were definitely too small to be warriors and their steeds.

"What are those?" Eragon squinted at them, trying to figure out why they looked familiar.

Ash ran to his side and leaned forward, peering at the approaching mass. "I _believe_ that those might be the werecats," she proclaimed, voice breathless with excitement.

Arya was sore - too sore - by the time they returned from their questioning. She was confident that they did find the other notable members of the city's resistance force and thankfully the elves took charge of flushing them all out.

* * *

She hadn't even taken off her armor when the door opened and Tryndemiel strode in. He barely made it past the door when he stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face. He straightened up as quick as a cat though, clutching his cloak around him. "Rider Arya, forgive me for coming in without consent," he said quickly. "But you are needed elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" Arya rose to her feet, a small frown forming on her face. "Is something wrong?"

"It's better if you were to see it yourself." He stepped away, giving her space to tie Deloi back to her belt and follow him out of the room.

Together, they made their way to Lord Fayille's quarters, where Murtagh and Aesyr were already waiting for them. Fayille was standing behind his desk, running a hand through his crimson hair.

"Good. You are all here," he said once they finished exchanging greetings. "I must not tarry with this, forgive me. We have sighted a small group of armed men heading for Gil'ead and we need you to intercept them."

 _Is that our purpose now? To do the small work that the rest of my people deem themselves unworthy for?_ Arya tried to school her face into a passive mask and knew she was failing.

 _Patience. We must not get ahead of ourselves._ As always, Firnen tried to be her voice of reason and his words had merit.

"Our forces in Gil'ead are spread so thin as it is. The bulk of our people are taking Ceunon, remember?" Fayille sighed, looking tired - which was unusual for an elf. "My son is leading the interrogations even if he is supposed to be looking after you."

"Then we'll do it." Murtagh leaned forward, worry on his face. "Do you have any news of what's happening in Ceunon?"

Aesyr nodded. "And the funeral for Oromis and Glaedr..."

Fayille rubbed his forehead. "The funeral... We have not yet sang for our dead, what with everything that is happening here. Rest assured though, we will not say our farewells to your teachers unless you are here."

Arya bowed her head. _I wouldn't want to sing without the others but... this is war, is it not, Firnen? We must do what we can with the time we have._

 _I'd rather mourn if we are complete too. His children should have been here. But aye, we can't just summon the others here, even if it's for our masters' funerals._ Firnen briefly showed her an image of the starry sky which he was watching from his perch. _I'll be there soon, little one._

* * *

Eragon fumbled with the blue tunic that peeked under his dwarven armor, fidgeting as he followed his friends to the main hall of the keep. His lion helm still made him feel silly but he tried to wear it with as much dignity as he could muster. The other Riders stood with him on the right side of Lord Bradburn's now vacant throne, the other new Elders in their dwarven armor, and their mentors with their elven-made ones. To the left of the throne stood Jormundur, senior commander of the Varden, along with Faolin, Brom, Selena Nightblade, Roran, and Angela.

Melikir swept into the room, clad in a fresh tunic of gold and a verdant cloak. He was patting his dark hair down in a rushed attempt to smoothen it. A linen bandage could be seen peeking out of his wrist. He gave everyone a tight smile as he stood before the throne. "Is this room warded against eavesdroppers?" he began.

"We've made sure that it is," confirmed Ash.

"Good." Melikir stared at the throne in distaste before sitting on it. "Tell me, what else can we offer these werecats aside from gold? We'll need as much support as we can if we are to win this war."

Jormundur shook his head. "Our future is uncertain. Is it not enough that they would have the chance to strike at Galbatorix?"

Vanir's lip twitched ever so slightly. "Werecats are difficult to read. I must admit that even my people cannot predict them."

"We can offer them barrels of cream," Eragon said, smiling in spite of himself. He felt much needed relief wash over him when everyone laughed at his jest.

Brom let out a rough grunt. "I wish it were that easy, lad."

The sound of three trumpets blasted right outside the door. It opened to let in a young page wearing a tunic that bore the Varden's standard. His eyes widened at the sight of the Riders and the Varden's other leaders. Swallowing hard, he struck the floor with his ceremonial staff. "His Most Exalted Highness, Grimrr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats, Lord of the Lonely Places, Ruler of the Night Reaches, and He Who Walks Alone."

 _A strange title for a king,_ noted Eragon.

Saphira quietly agreed and added, _But I don't think it is so strange at all for the King of Cats_.

Eragon's eyes fixated on the entrance, where Grimrr Halfpaw himself stepped through in the shape of a human, followed by four others that resembled Solembum - their dark fur shaggy, their bodies long-limbed and heavy-shouldered, ears tasseled with tufts of fur. Despite their small numbers, there was no doubt that they would be formidable foes.

Grimrr Halfpaw was a curiosity. He stood at four feet tall - like a dwarf or a human child, though he could _never_ be mistaken for one or the other. His high cheekbones, upswept brows, and canted green eyes were more reminiscent of an elf. His ragged dark hair framed his pointed chin before falling to his shoulders.

His coppery brown skin was marked by a myriad of thin white scars. Two fingers in his left hand were missing - as if bitten off - and explained his name. He was dressed in a roughly hewn leather and a loincloth made of rabbit skin. A dozen or so dried skulls of small game like rabbits, mice, voles, and even birds were tied on the front of the vest, clattering as he moved.

The werecats gave no heed to the group watching them, not until Grimrr strode to Angela, who was knitting a striped tube sock with six needles. The witch watched placidly as the hair on the werecat's head rippled like his companion's fur. The four legged ones' eyes narrowed as their king drew back his lips to reveal his fanged teeth and hissed.

Angela looked up from her sock, impudent disinterest on her face. "Cheep cheep."

Eragon's hand flew to Vorstnar's pommel, body tensing. The others around him did the same, ready to draw their blades in case the werecats attacked. Instead, Grimrr snarled at Angela before turning away and continuing his march. One of his companions raised its paw and swatted the yarn, like a playful housecat would.

 _What in the world is cheep cheep?_ Saphira wondered.

Eragon tried to suppress a smile in spite of himself. _Does anyone really know the reason behind anything Angela does?_

Saphira huffed in amusement. _She is an odd one, yes, but I'm sure she would be as easy to eat as any of you._

 _We would appreciate if none of you tried that._ Eragon's lips twitched, earning stares from the other Riders and his father. _Wait, he's here._

Grimrr stopped in front of Melikir, tilting his head ever-so-slightly in acknowledgement. He was confidently arrogant in the way that reminded one of dragons, highborn people, and _cats_. "Lady Nasuada," he murmured in a deep voice reminiscent of his wildcat kin.

"Ah, King Halfpaw." Melikir seemed unfazed. "You and your entire race are most welcome in the Varden. Forgive me, King Orrin of Surda should have been here but he and his men are busy patrolling our flanks. We can't turn our backs on our enemies, yes?"

"Of course." Grimrr's smile bared his fangs yet again.

"Most curious, that you have decided to pay us a visit now, of all times. Have your kind not prefered solitude above all? Many of our people have forgotten that you were more than myths. Truly, we have never seen so many of your kind since the Fall." A dark look crossed Melikir's face. "Tell me, is there something that you seek from us?"

The werecat threw his head back and laughed, motioning to the Riders with a sweep of his hand. "Hunters do not strike against fellow hunters unless they know their rival's weakness. Galbatorix and the Forsworn have shown theirs - that they will not hurt these Riders that you have here. We've waited for this long before your grandsire was born, _human_ , and we will not hesitate to seize it. Blood will flow as the Black King and his abominable henchmen learn to fear us and the world will know that it was us who brought his downfall."

 _A tall order for ones so small._ Saphira definitely was not amused as Melikir traded some more questions with the feline king. _I do not think the world shall ever fear them the way it fears us now_.

 _I know._ Eragon eyed Grimrr as the latter bragged of bringing every able bodied werecat with him to fight, and his command of regular housecats. _Best not to offend our potential allies, though. You know, they will still be valuable if he's not lying._

A mental sigh escaped Saphira as Melikir began to barter with Grimrr over trivial demands such as armor, bird meat, and liver. _These little two-legs ask for too much, especially when all we want from them is their loyalty._

Eragon remembered Solembum, and the fact that he merely followed Angela of his own accord. _Maybe demanding their loyalty is a tall order from us, too_.

He just hoped that the werecats did not stab them behind their backs.

* * *

 **Like I mentioned in Ashes to Ashes, yes, I'm back! Still pulling myself together but otherwise back with kinda but not really regular updates!**


	9. Unwanted Omens

**Chapter 9: Unwanted Omens**

Rain began to pour.

Aesyr looked into the small mirror in her room, running her fingers through her rust-brown hair with a sigh. She barely recognized the girl that was staring back at her anymore. She was neither timid nor mousy anymore. She was now a every bit a Rider who would bring fire and blood to any foe that stood in her way.

She turned away and left her room, trying to summon as much confidence as she could.

Arya and Murtagh were waiting for her outside, unease on their faces. Arya stepped forward to put a hand on Aesyr's shoulder. "We are just waiting for Tryndemiel-elda so we can leave," she explained. "I know I shouldn't be asking but – are you ready for this?"

"Part of me says that I'm not, but another tells me that I _should_ be." It was true. Aesyr may have been slowly growing into the confidence of a Rider, but there was still fear and apprehension that whispered unpleasant things to her.

Arya nodded grimly. "It is perfectly normal."

Murtagh sighed. "I hope 'tis true – that Oromis and Glaedr's funerals shall not proceed without us. It still wouldn't feel right without the others but I suppose we'll have to make do."

Tryndemiel strode into the hallway, carefully smoothing down his frayed amber cloak. He gave an unusually curt nod as he caught sight of them. "We must go."

They marched out of the keep, where the dragons were waiting for them under the gray cascades of rain. Even though the Riders used a small spell to keep themselves – and Tryndemiel – dry, the gloomy atmosphere still did not bode well.

Aesyr mounted Sardonis, firmly gripping the leather saddle to make sure that she did not fall off. Her gedwey ignasia felt like it was tingling. _I know you're anticipating this battle._

 _Like you should. There is nothing like a good battle to make your blood roar in your veins_. Sardonis spread his shadowy wings and took to the skies.

They headed south and east through the early evening sky, to the direction that they knew would eventually lead to Uru'baen. They didn't go far enough to find themselves in Galbatorix's territory, though. They found the enemy soldiers just five miles away from Gil'ead – a band of men in mismatched armor and rusty weapons. A small cadre of younger elves were marching toward them, better-armed and their entire beings brimming with power. They would be closing the distance in just a few more steps.

 _The king is truly mad if he thinks that a small number of soldiers are enough to get rid of us – and the elves,_ Aesyr noted with distaste. _Even the Laughing Dead pose a lesser threat now that we all know how to kill them_.

 _Prepare yourselves_ , Murtagh called out.

Their dragons swooped low, jaws yawning open to unleash their vivid flames, lighting up the stormy plains, the heat turning the rain into mist. If their foes were the Laughing Dead, everyone will soon know – and if they weren't, then the battle would be over soon.

They were indeed facing the Laughing Dead.

Mad laughter mixed with shrill war cries filled the air as the enemies began to charge at the elves. Aesyr leapt off Diamanda's back to join the fray now that it was too dangerous to employ fire again. She drew Myrkir deftly, beheading a foe with one swing. There was no time to feel fear nor pity nor disgust as the enemies kept coming. Her body began to fall into rhythm, following the steps of the dance of war. Everything but the heat of the moment retreated to the back of her head though a part of her knew that the full force of regret and rage would hit her later.

* * *

Nasuada was still weary from battle, but she was a Rider and she had to do her duty – even if that duty simply meant that she had to break her fast with the Varden and its leaders. She wouldn't have minded it normally but it was one of those days where she wanted to be with Solaris and contemplate on everything that recently happened to them.

She didn't want to disappoint anyone though. She was already running late, though, and she couldn't even contaact Solaris properly. Her dragon was too busy hunting to take notice of her Rider.

The banquet hall was already crowded when she arrived. Melikir and Orrin were seated on opposite ends of the long table. Orrin was surrounded by his Surdan lords, as was expected of him, while Melikir was seated with Brom and Selena, Jormundur, Garrow, and Faolin. The other Riders were also there, waiting for her with amusement in their eyes.

 _My, my, it seems like someone woke up late,_ Katrina noted, lip twitching in a barely concealed smile.

 _Don't make me feel worse._ Nasuada huffed as she sat down between Eragon and Vanir, hastily flattening her hair. "Forgive me," she announced to everyone. "It seems like the battle had left my body too weary to rise in time."

"You are quite forgiven, sister. This is breakfast – not a war meeting." Melikir glared at a clearly oblivious Orrin.

Ash leaned forward, grinning. "He makes me quite curious. What kind of person would assume that everyone can think clearly before breakfast?" she said in a low voice.

That was met with a round of muffled Riders from Melikir's side of the table, drawing dirty glares from Orrin's retinue.

Vanir primly piled up bread and soft cheese and a cluster of berries on Nasuada's plate. "You must eat. I am sure that you'll need all your strength today. We all will."

Nasuada's stomach growled in agreement. She began to pile the cheese on her bread. "Thank you, Vanir. You are quite thoughtful today."

"I am _trying_ ," Vanir said quietly before looking away. Truth be told, he was doing a great job of disassociating himself with the awfully proud young elf that he used to be.

They had barely finished their meal when the door flew open. A fair-haired man – from Carvahall, Nasuada was sure – stood by the entrance, restrained by the two human members of the Nighthawks.

"No, please, wait! I just need to talk to the Riders," he was saying, agitation in his voice.

"Let him go," Roran said, rising to his feet. "Is something the matter?"

"It's Mother," Albreich explained frantically as he was released. "The birthing pains have just begun and Father sent me here to ask if any of you can help with your magic in case something went wrong."

"Of course." Katrina rose to her feet. She exchanged glances with Roran and Eragon, who was quick to stand up.

Nasuada watched them leave, hoping that everything would be fine. She had heard so many things about motherhood – about how joyous and painful it was. A small part of her wondered what it would be like to raise a family someday, though. She was sure she would love it.

Katrina flinched at the sound of the shrill scream that rent the air.

* * *

She wasn't just the butcher's daughter anymore, wasn't just the gentle girl that half the village idealized. She killed people with her own hands, heard them cry and plead for mercy. She feared the thoughts of death and misery, but what she was hearing now scared her even more.

Elain's pain was different, and even just hearing it tore the silver Rider's heart. The sounds she made presented a terrifying truth – that she may not survive the birth.

Elain and Horst's other son, Baldor, was waiting at the end of the gravely lane, pacing around anxiously. He looked up as his brother arrived, then turned to the Riders. "Thank you. I did not expect any of you to come – I know you have your own responsibilities."

"We will always come for the people of Carvahall," Eragon declared. "And if Murtagh were here, I know he would have done it too."

Their dragons were waiting for them too, placidly watching the other frantic humans – mostly friends of Horst's family or whose wives were helping with the birth. They were unfazed by the occassionally anxious looks that the relatively little humans shot at them.

The air was torn by a loud, inhuman scream that Katrina hoped she would never hear again.

They ran to the tent, followed by Albreich and Baldor who both began to tremble. The world seemed to have fallen silent as they swept past the men. They just made it to the entrance when the warbling cries of a newborn child resounded. A few seconds passed before a loud keening followed it – the sound of women mourning a tragedy.

"She can't be dead," Katrina snarled.

Before anyone could stop her, she tore the tent flaps open and stormed in. The women crouching over a tired, panting Elain were poring over a crying bundle in someone's hands, desolation etched on their faces. The mother and child were alive – there shouldn't be a reason to weep.

"Rider Katrina!" Gertrude, the town healer, turned to her. "Were you here for the birthing?"

"Yes. What happened?" Katrina stepped forward, relieved that no one tried to stop her. Behind her, Eragon and Roran stumbled into the tent, prepared to stop her from doing anything rash.

"It is most dire. The child is healthy, but she has a cat lip."

Katrina finally understood. Children with cat lips were often smothered at birth. They were difficult to feed – and if they grew, they would have been treated with shame and ridicule by their peers. They would never have any prospects for marriage.

Many would have prefered a stillborn child.

"I'll heal her." The words escacped Katrina's lips before she knew whaat she was saying. "If it is needed, then Eragon and Roran nshall help me."

Horst left Elain's bedside to approach them. It seemed like he heard their conversation. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. "Is there really something you could do for her?"

"We can do something. Fear not." Katrina held out her hands. "May I see her?"

The child they put in her waiting arms was so warm and tiny. Even with the gap that ran from her left nostril to the middle of her lip, it was difficult to imagine anyone trying to harm her. She was so helpless. _I won't hurt you, little one. I won't let them hurt you, either._

"I believe we'll need somewhere a little more quiet to work on this," Roran declared, violet eyes glancing at the keening women.

"I'll take you to my tent, then," Gertrude said. "It is a little cramped, but you'll need someone who _knows_ how to care for a child while you work on your magic."

"Thank you." Roran turned to Katrina. "I can carry her if you want."

"No. I'll be fine." Katrina clutched the bundle close to her, a surge of protectiveness rumbling in her as the little child began to sniffle.

"Gertrude, please lead the way," Eragon said quietly. "We really appreciate your help."

"But of course, Eragon." Gertrude smiled grimly as they began to walk out of the tent.

The villagers' eyes were trained on them, anticipation in the air. Their gazes filled Katrina with determination to heal the child. She would not fail. She cannot afford to fail – not when someone's future was on the line.

She found Luneria's comforting presence in her head. _You will help me, right? I don't think the three of us can do this by ourselves._

 _I am no healer. You know that._ Luneria's thoughts were like a quiet embrace in her head – just what she needed at the moment. _There are feats that only you can do, little one, but for what it's worth, we are always one. You won't face this alone_.

 _We are one, indeed._ They will save the child from a cursed fate today. Tomorrow, they will save the rest of Alagaesia from a mad king and his Riders.

* * *

 **I'm sorry for any writing mistakes and than you so much for pointing them out. I tend to write while tired or stressed and often miss a lot of things when I proofread. This update is way, _way_ delayed but a lot of things came up and I ended up being ridiculously busy this week.**

 **Anyway, thank you for sticking with me! As a treat, I'll be updating this chapter before we hop back to Ash's backstory.**


	10. Futures Both Certain and Uncertain

**Chapter 10: Futures Both Certain and Uncertain**

"Naina hvitr un bollr," Roran murmured.

Pale purple werelights surrounded his little group as they settled into Gertrude's tent. He knew that he and his fellow Riders wouldn't have any trouble in the dark, stuffy tent thanks to their elven vision but Gertrude was another matter. Letting the sunlight in from outside the tent might have been a better idea but it would be better for them to work in privacy.

Gertrude clutched her bag close to her as she regarded the three Riders and the werelights around them. Her face – ever so familiar to everyone who grew up in and around Carvahall – filled Roran with so much homesickness. _It may be silly but the village was home._

 _You can't go back, Roran – you know it._ Askanir's voice in his head was grim and sad.

 _Yes, I do._ Carvahall was the home that they left behind, nothing more. Roran shook his head ever the slightest, trying to fight off the pang of nostalgia. "Is something the matter, Gertrude?"

The healer tilted her head as she regarded him quizzically. "You have all changed so much. The children I used to look after are gone."

"You know us still," Eragon said, a small frown on his face as he regarded her with troubled blue eyes.

Her mouth twitched as she turned away. "I don't think so."

Roran exchanged glances with Eragon as Katrina set down the babe on the lone cot, a beautiful smile on her face as she touched the babe's clenched fist as gently as she could. He felt his stomach swoop at the tenderness on her face. _I am being a fool again, am I not?_

 _You're always a fool when it comes to this pretty human,_ Askanir groaned.

Gertrude stayed where she was, a small distance away from the Riders. "What are you planning to do?"

"We're not sure yet. Please give us time to discuss," Katrina replied with her usual pleasant smile. She turned to her companions as her stormy gaze turned as sharp as a dragon's claw. _What now?_

 _I don't know, we've never done something like this before,_ Roran mused, rubbing the stubble that began to grow on his chin.

 _I think you must go slowly, little ones, so you do not bite your tails by accident,_ Saphira mused, joining them from wherever she was at the moment.

That filled Eragon with amusement – amusement that he shared with everyone whose minds he was linked to at the moment. _Why, have you ever bitten your tail?_

There was a long pause, followed by Eragon wincing. It seemed like Saphira _did_ bite her tail just to try it.

 _You must focus,_ Luneria chided them.

Roran nodded. _She's right. We still haven't decided what to do, what spells to use._

Katrina crossed her arms. _Then we have to work on that first, don't we?_

 _And then what?_ Eragon stared at them, jumbled thoughts leaking through their link. _I think it might hurt the child more if we simply use magic._

Katrina's eyes widened. She covered her mouth in horror. _I don't want to hurt her with my rashness._

 _No one does._ Roran turned to Eragon. _What do you propose?_

 _Elves sing to work their magic, don't they? They sing in the forest to coax trees and flowers to grow in any way they desire or alter something in their bodies._ Eragon grinned. _Maybe we can do the same._

Roran paused, trying to recall the elven songs they've heard in Ellesmera. His knowledge wasn't enough. _We only know fragments of those songs._

Katrina chuckled. Excitement flooded her face, coloring her cheeks a faint red. _Then we use our own song. I'm sure you still remember the cradle song._

Roran did remember, of course. Everyone in Carvahall knew that song which mothers sang at dusk to lull their children into sleep. His mother, Marian, used to sing it to him and his cousins with so much love that it made him feel a dull ache in his chest. The notes were simple enough for everyone to retain a memory of it, and soothing enough to keep an infant calm.

"I don't see any changes," Gertrude noted.

Katrina turned to her, eyes misty with tears of nostalgia. "It hasn't even started."

The Riders quickly began to formulate a spell that was a little lengthy but still simple enough for them to stumble through without posing much challenge. It felt easier with the three of them and their dragons, to Roran's relief. Working on magic was more challenging when dealing with a child, especially a newborn. They had to tread cautiously.

The Riders began to sing in harmony, carefully uttering the first part of the spell in an attempt to make small changes at a time. The day began to wear on as they did their slow work, their strength intertwined with their dragons' and with each other. They occassionally fed the child with a trickle of energy whenever she stirred with hunger, afraid that feeding her would disrupt the process. They all refrained from touching her mind, afraid of what it could do to someone so young.

The cat lip slowly began to fix itself, gum and palate melding into a seamless whole as her upper lip formed a flawless bow.

The song eventually faded into silence as they finished. The werelights were glowing ever brighter above them now that dusk was quickly approaching. Roran felt sore – the three of them had been sitting on the cot all day to get a good look at the child.

"This is what magic is supposed to be used for," Katrina said as she gazed at the child in awe.

Gertrude approached them after setting her knitting aside. "Never did I think that I'd see such a thing – especially not from you children…"

Katrina all but glowed with pride as she picked up the child, noting that she was so warm and heavy. She let the others feel a surge of protectiveness and leaned forward to whisper, "Se ono waise ilia." May you be happy. It wasn't a proper spell but the Riders all hoped it was enough to help her stay away from the misery that plagued so many people – or at least make her smile.

It did.

* * *

They stepped out of the tent as Roran extinguished the werelights. The camp was preparing itself for the night, the smell of cooking dinner pervading the air. There was a small crowd gathered around the tent - mostly people from Carvahall and the elven spellcasters, while several warriors from the Varden were lurking at the edge of the group. It seemed like they have all been waiting for hours. The Riders would have been safe with the dragons and the elves keeping watch, but it was a terrible excuse for their mistake.

 _We've been too complacent,_ he noted.

 _Then we shall have to do better next time,_ Saphira whispered.

At the head of the crowd were Horst and his sons. They looked so restless that it made Eragon's stomach clench. So many people were pinning their hopes, both big and small, on the Riders' backs. They had to live up to it.

Katrina walked over to the smith and handed the girl over, letting him see her face. Horst's face quickly shifted from stoic anxiety to tearful gratitude. "I – I don't know what to say."

"Our hands are too blooedy for this kind of work but…" Eragon paused. "We were glad to be of help. It was the least we could do after everything you've done for us in Carvahall."

"We are forevermore in your debt, Riders. My family and I…" Horst trailed off.

Katrina quickly cut him off before he could say more. "We only did what anyone with the ability should, Horst."

"Not anyone who can and should do it ever would," Horst said, bowing his head and trembling with so much joy and relief. "You did, and for that we shall always be grateful."

Eragon felt his lip wobble. "What will you name her?" he asked before the strength of the smith's emotions carried him away.

Horst beamed at his child with so much pride that it reminded Eragon of Brom. "If it is agreeable to Elain, we might call her Hope."

"A fitting name," Roran agreed with a smile.

* * *

Garrow was still tired from the previous day's battles despite his refusal to admit it, and eating dinner with his sister and her lover was the most relaxing thing he'd done since the Varden took Feinster. He still found it hard to believe that Selena – Nightblade, the Varden called her – had three children with Brom. It was almost as hard to believe as the fact that Brom was a former Rider who was over a century old and also the founder of the Varden.

"Picking out everyone here who would attack us – whether of their own volition or their oaths – will take some time," Selena was saying as she poured stew on Garrow's bowl.

Brom snorted – a look that Carvahall used to closely associate with Eragon, Murtagh, and Roran. It must have been his way of showing affection. "I know that, but Melikir insisted."

"Melikir insists on things that might hinder our war efforts," Selena argued. She turned to her brother like she always did when they were children. She was looking for an ally. "The longer we draw out the war, the higher the risk is for our children. What do you think?"

Garrow did something that often caused childish spats between them. He disagreed with her. "I don't think there's anything wrong with what the lad is doing. It's better to know our enemies in the face now instead of waiting for them to stab our backs while we march to Uru'baen."

Brom nodded along in agreement. "Too right."

Selena sighed. She stared at the flames which cast her features in sharp relief. She took a sip of her watered-down wine with a sigh. "I worry too much, think too much."

"Don't we all?" Garrow asked. "This is war – a war that our children are participating in. We only want everyone to make decisions that would be the best for them. It makes me think a lot too, but in the end I have to admit that we can't protect them anymore."

She stared at him with a downturned mouth. "You're right."

He blinked rapidly as he realized that she did not start a fight. His disagreements used to _always_ lead to petty arguments and this change threw him off guard. "I-I am? I mean, of course I am."

She exchanged glances with Brom before turning back to him. "Have you ever thought of what you'll be doing once this war is over?"

He paused, staring at her. He had never really thought much of the future – not since the exodus from Carvahall. All he cared about was the present and keeping his people _alive_. He thought of the village, and what the Empire could have done to it in their absence. He thought of the villagers who would definitely work hard to rebuild it even if it would be a little different _like they were_. He thought of his ruined farm, of waking up alone in the morning now that the children had found their way to greatness.

"I haven't really thought of it, no," he admitted. The future was a wide, yawning chasm of possibilities – possibilities that he had to face alone.

"That makes it the two of us," Selena said with a bitter laugh. She glanced at Brom. "My husband will teach new Riders someday. Meanwhile I will no longer be needed by the Varden once we secure this land."

Brom frowned. "How sure are you that they won't need you? And how sure are you that the Riders won't?"

Her lip twitched, but spoke nothing of it. "I'm getting _older,_ Brom. Unlike you."

Brom opened his mouth to speak, then quickly shut it. He looked away, face pale.

Garrow ate the rest of his meal in silence, not wanting to spark – or be involved in – an argument.

* * *

 **Aaaand I'm back! I've had this chapter stewing for weeks but shit happened and I ended up in the emergency room because of a scare. Everything's okay, though! We'll be seeing little Hope again in the future and as for Team Arya? Well, let's just say we'll have a look at them next chapter.**


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